Shortman Shorts
by SuprSingr
Summary: Short drabbles and ficlets revolving around the "Life with the Shortmans" universe. Arnold and Helga's kids are a handful, after all, and they're always up to something. Can Arnold and Helga rise to the challenge? Mostly just a lot of silly jokes, but there may be some pairings thrown in. Rated for caution and annoying teenagers. Update: "A Little Boy and His Cat"
1. Taming Chaos

**A/N: **I keep coming up with short, random jokes out of nowhere for these guys and having nowhere to actually go with them. So I've started this as a compilation of all the pointless ideas I come up with that can't necessarily be turned into full-fledged chapters to "Life with the Shortmans." Plus you may have noticed there have been a few times I've written drabbles for these guys and put them in "Dabbling in Drabbles." I've felt kind of guilty about that, like I'm spamming you guys, so from now on, I'll be posting those here. Now you can choose whether or not you want to be spammed. Or in other words, without forcing them in your face, I'll be all alone and screwed. XD

If you ever have any requests of things you'd like to read more of, like you want to read something of Amanda, or Ham, or anyone really, suggestions are welcome. I can't promise I'll write it, but it'll be kept in mind, at the very least.

I really hope you enjoy these, because I love writing them. They're great practice, and great fun. In general, as a status update to the actual fic: I've been working on it religiously. It's about halfway finished, but the only times I have time to work on it really are late, late in the evening and sometimes early in the morning. I'm very busy, so time is key. But I predict an update either this month or early next. In the meantime, enjoy, and **reviews are love**. Thank you!

**Disclaimer:** I claim no ownership of "HEY ARNOLD!" Zachary and Phillip Shortman are mine, though. Steal and I'm coming after you with a bloody machete.

**Partial Dedication: **To **writergirl97**, for her birthday that was not long ago, apparently. I almost didn't know, but now I'll never forget it. It fell on the same day as my brother's birthday. Not only that, but the brother I kind of (without meaning to, but noticed later on and smashed my head into a brick wall about) subconsciously based some of Phil's traits off of. How's that for coincidence? Since it was short notice, though, at the moment this is all I have. Expect something better once I get a little more time to write.

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**Shortman Shorts**

**Taming Chaos  
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Phil stared intently at the screen, saddled closely by his father as he read over the words. They read at the same pace, leisurely yet attentive to every detail, until an error was found. Phil responded instantly, saying the word before his dad could, "Typo."

Arnold chuckled, fixing the word as he said with quiet humor, "Yeah, I doubt she wanted to say 'She ate fat.'"

Phil murmured a reply but it was unintelligible, his eyes already focused on the next line. Arnold easily fell back into sync with him.

The room was quiet save for the occasional mutter of an error, and the faint click of a keyboard as said errors were corrected. They were lost in the work and, admittedly, the story, as they proofread each line with careful consideration.

If they'd not been dead to the world, they might have heard the vague sound of sneakers against wooden floorboards, warning them of danger. They may have heard the subtle creak, or the scuffle against a rug. They may have even heard the slosh of water. But as it were, they didn't become aware of anything until the loud voice came directly behind them, "Wha'cha doing?"

Arnold jolted into reality, startled, but Phil all but lost it. He jumped on instinct and clung to his father's neck, all but choking him as he took in heaving, panicked breaths. For someone so calm ordinarily, he was remarkably jumpy.

Arnold choked out, patting Phil's still trembling arm, "Zack, don't frighten your brother."

Zack chuckled, leaning his arms against the back of the chair as he looked over to see what was on the screen, one hand tight around a cup of what could only be assumed as water. "Sorry for being curious. But it's not _all_ my fault, Phil would be terrified of butterflies if they snuck up on him unannounced. Even if I wasn't trying, he'd have been clinging to the ceiling fan."

Arnold felt Phil's grip recede then, and craned his head back just enough to raise his eyebrow at his eldest. "So you admit you did that on purpose."

Zack's only response was to smirk. Arnold sighed.

Phil grumbled, laying with his head in his arms on the desk, pointedly keeping his eyes on the mouse, "I'm not afraid of butterflies."

Zack heard him, though, and smirked all the more wolfishly.

"To answer your question," Arnold began swiftly, putting an end to the possibility of any fights breaking out, "we were just proofreading your mother's new book."

"Mom's book?" Zack asked, half his eyebrow already raised. "But Mom writes romance novels…" He bit his lip, eyes sparkling. "And you guys call yourselves men…"

"Don't start…" Phil warned, giving him a scathing look.

Zack put his free hand to his mouth to try to hold back his laughter, but his eyes said all that needed to be said. Phil glared at him heatedly, enough so that Arnold feared the room would catch fire.

"Phil's being paid," Arnold explained.

"Plus it helps," Phil went on to add, his glare softening a bit, but barely, "I'm going to be a writer one day, and Mom's been on the bestseller list a _few_ times. It's good to study."

"Ambitious," Zack teased, hooking his foot over his other leg as he took a sip from his drink. "I look forward to the eye-twitching that will no doubt ensue for the next forty-eight hours. Oh, and," he held up his cup to Phil, a smirk dancing at the corners of his lips, "all that lovely romantic fiction you'll be writing years from now."

"How _dare_—" Phil began, looking ready to start screaming as he gripped the arm of Arnold's chair with a whitening hand.

Arnold grabbed Phil into a quick hug, catching him off guard as he went stiff as a board. He let his grip go a little looser, giving him the option of pulling out of it if he wished, and patted him gently on the back. "Phil, relax, no killing your brother. And Zachary," Arnold sighed, snapping his eyes to Zack's laughing ones with a stern look, "if you don't stop…" Phil pushed away from him then, interrupting him, his tongue stuck out.

"Yeah, yeah," Zack waved him off, smirking purposely at Phil, "he'll call in the fighter pilots, King Kong will go on a rampage, the Earth will collide with the sun in a fiery explosion and all humanity will be doomed. I know the drill. Phil doesn't do romance." He smirked then, all sharp teeth and mischief. "He just reads up on it all the time and obsesses over Casablanca."

Phil's face went blank.

Arnold sent him a disapproving look. "Zacha—"

"Up, up," Zack interrupted, holding up his cup as he took a step back, "I speak only the truth. You scold me all the time for lying, you can't scold me for honesty too. It's only fair. All I did was agree Phil won't be writing any girly chick flicks in his future. But if not that, then I know just what he can put in one of his movies." He grinned then, crookedly, and grabbed hold of the back of his dad's chair. With a bit of strain, he managed to pull it back away from the table with the laptop sitting upon it, as well as away from Phil, and then, simply, sat his cup of water on top of his dad's head. He gestured grandly to it. "Ta-da!"

Phil stared at him, his eyes very slowly switching between his beaming face and the cup sitting effortlessly on their father's head. Arnold's face was tight, his lips pursed ever so slightly, as he carefully moved his hands up to retrieve the cup from his head. "Zachary…" Arnold said very slowly, quietly, "what are you talking about?"

"Your head." Zack grinned all the more bright. "It's gigantic. And flat. It makes an excellent table. How's that for comedy? Wouldn't that make a great comedy skit? You could, like…" he shuffled his hands, as if searching for words in the air, "use it for the table on Thanksgiving or something. A table cloth, some flowers, it'd be hilarious."

Arnold and Phil shared a look, unmoving.

"Can I kill him now?" Phil asked calmly after a moment, tone a bit lower than usual.

Arnold blinked at him, eyes still half-lidded and blank, before he shrugged very slightly and sat the cup of water on the table. "Be my guest."

"Hey now, you guys," he heard Zack say with that smooth, slippery tone of his, "I'm a _lover_, not a—Oof!" Arnold heard a loud clatter behind him, followed by a cackle, but he was already busy reading over the next line of the novel.

_She ate fast, shoving the eggs down her gullet in six seconds flat before flying out the front door. Being president of the United States wasn't an easy job, after all, and she had much more pressing matters at hand than breakfast. _

_There was always something calling for her attention, something that had to be done quickly in order to keep the delicate balance of her country even and secure, or her kids safe and happy, for that matter, but this was even more important than that. More important than famine, or the education of their youth, or even the jobless and homeless people fraught across the country._

_Her husband was missing, and without him, the household and her entire world would surely be thrown into chaos._

_Or at least, more so than it usually was…_


	2. Tutoring Chris

**A/N: **Written over the course of four hours, amidst a lot of studying and while I ate and drank endless amounts of cocoa puffs and root beer, like the highly mature six-year-old I am. *Diva 'tude***  
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**Disclaimer: **I run this sh*t. Amanda and Chris are mine. Arnold ain't.**  
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**Shortman Shorts  
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**Tutoring Chris**

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"So you see, if you just write down the nines on paper," Amanda explained gently, leaning closer so she could write on his scratch paper, "the left side goes up, and the right side goes down. So it's nine, eighteen, twenty-seven, thirty-six, forty-five—do you see?" She looked up at him.

Chris was staring at the paper, his face utterly blank. He blinked dully, as if he hadn't even heard her speak.

Amanda huffed, letting the pencil fall with a clatter onto the table as she leaned back into her chair. Chris barely reacted, but did startle enough out of his trance to glance at her strangely, still silent and irritatingly blank-faced. Of all the annoying faces he made, the one where he looked like he didn't even harbor a soul was the most painful.

She took a breath, summoning the patience she boasted in everyone's presence but his. "Look, if you're not going to even listen, there's no point."

"You act as if," he began, mirroring her posture as he leaned back in his chair, mocking her, "there was a point to begin with."

She sighed. "There is a point. The point is getting you to pass second grade. You act like you don't even care."

Chris didn't respond. Just stared at her soullessly.

Desperately, she reached over and picked up the paper, bending it to display the numbers in his direction, as if that would make him look. "It's really not that hard. If you would just—"

"Yeah, maybe it's not hard for _you_, Ms. Perfect," he muttered, eyes on the floor with something bitter and annoying there.

Amanda blinked at that, stunned, before an exasperated look passed over her face and she let her head fall down to rest on the table.

She wished her dad would get back already. He'd been gone for all of ten minutes, out to "prepare a few things for the test tomorrow," but she knew better. He just wanted to leave them alone for a while.

She wished he'd give it a break.

It was times like these she really missed kindergarten, and nap time. She could really use a nap right now. Being a "big girl" really stunk sometimes. And Chris, he'd been a big boy for a year more than her, and yet he hadn't made any move towards growing up. If anything, she felt older than him. It was rather pathetic.

She glanced down at the numbers on the page by her nose, wondering at exactly how many seconds had passed. Chris didn't seem to mind the silence, but she was getting bored. She was used to loud noises and constant activity. Being left alone to her own thoughts was unnerving. Especially alone with Chris, with nothing but a math book and a hundred problems between them, her thoughts weren't a happy place to be.

Steeling herself, she lifted her head and looked at him. He averted his gaze instantly, but she'd seen. She tried to mask her wariness the best she could, despite the implications of that. She cleared her throat, clasping her hands daintily on the table.

"You know… my dad taught this stuff to us not too long ago," Amanda told him carefully, her eyes searching out his. "There has to be some part of you that remembers. That paid attention, even a little?"

"Nah," he said blandly, eyes focused out the window, and on the flying leaves that signaled rain.

She couldn't help herself. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Too busy bugging me, right?"

That got him to look at her. Brown eyes that were once soft and happy were now pits of unrelenting black, harsh and unforgiving even towards those who had done nothing to him. She glared at him for the look. She wasn't the one in the wrong here.

He smiled then. Not a nice smile. An obstinate, taunting one, and she was reminded of what a bully he was. All the times he'd go gliding through the halls on his skateboard and would stick his tongue out at the teachers when they told him to stop, when _she_ told him to stop. All the times she'd caught him demanding lunch money from her friends, and pinning first graders against the back of dumpsters. He wasn't a nice boy. Not anymore. "What's the matter, Piggy? Feeling peeved?"

Her muscles tightened. She tried not to let her irritation show. Instead she attempted a subject change, holding the paper up again, "Maybe we should start a little smaller." Her eyes cut. "What's two times three?"

"Twenty-eight."

She slammed the paper down on the table, rattling the writing utensils on the table as she stood up from her chair and glowered at him. "You're not even trying!"

He looked startled. _Good_. He deserved to be the one confused for once. He swallowed, his nerve returning to him too fast for her liking. He pursed his lips at her. "It's not like there's a point! I'm an idiot, remember? You're just a little girl! What do you know about teaching a mentally challenged kid math?"

"You're not an idiot, you just—" she tried, her eyes all but begging him to let her try.

"No!" he yelled, grabbing fistfuls of his scraggly brown hair and clenching his eyes shut like just looking at her caused him physical pain. "I don't know how to do it! It doesn't matter! Math is pointless! Just leave me alone!"

The sound of a chair crashing against the floor hit his ears a split-second before he felt himself being jerked forward. His eyes shot open to meet two big green ones, filled with frustrated tears. He sucked in a breath.

"Shush," she growled, her hold tightening on him. "Just please, stop, think, and tell me simply: what's two times three?"

He twitched, trying to force her hands off of him, but the effort was pathetic. She just gripped his collar tighter, careful not to actually hurt him, and held his eyes stubbornly. He wasn't getting out of this. If he wouldn't pay attention on his own, she would give him no choice but to pay attention, with a nice, heavy dose of his own jerky medicine. And maybe, if she was lucky, the gruffness would make him forget about her. He preyed on her sweet, little girl innocence—she was being anything but sweet right now, and maybe she was innocent, but not to him and his ways.

But all he would do was stare at her, and fumble with his hands at his sides. She was certain she wasn't choking him. She could see he was breathing fine, if not a bit heavy from the shock. A minute later, he still wouldn't say anything. She held his look all the same, unfazed and ready to wait for all the time it took. She could be patient.

The sound of the door opening shocked them, and Amanda quickly sprung up and away from him, certain her dad would never let her hear the end of it if he saw. He'd misinterpret, and twist, and grin secretively. She had enough problems with her mom's "subtle" hints.

"Okay, so, Chris," her dad began in his usual warm, kindly voice, a smile lighting up his middle-aged features as he crossed the room to them, "how have you been doing?"

Chris just shrugged with that soulless look falling effortlessly back into place, and Amanda had to hold back a small snarl. Even without trying, he enraged her. Or maybe that was just leftover anger from their little episode a few seconds ago. She didn't care to know which. She needed an out, and now.

"Um, Daddy," she said softly, looking up at him with the biggest eyes she could muster, "I'm a little hungry. Could I go down to the cafeteria and see if they're still selling snacks?"

As expected, her father melted, a hand already reaching into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. "Sure, Faith. Bring me back some gum drops if you can."

With her dad's money tight in her hand, she began towards the door.

"Okay, Chris, let's start with something simple. There's no pressure, just relax and do your best, all right?" A pause. "What's two times four?"

There was another pause as she opened the door, already halfway out.

"Six."

She instantly slammed the door shut behind her and went stomping down the hall.

He so did that on _purpose_!


	3. Dear Diary

**A/N: **So yeah, this happened. Sorry 'bout that. My bad.

**Disclaimer:** "HEY ARNOLD!" ain't mine. Any and all original characters here are. For anyone confused, Reuben and Riley are Rhonda and Curly's springoff.

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**Shortman Shorts**

**Dear Diary  
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Dear Diary:

I'm not gay. I swear.

Mom decided it'd be a cute idea to get me a diary. Yes, Diary, do you feel the pain in that sentence? Those were her exact words. "_A cute idea_." She then proceeded to explain that she used to write down a lot of her troubled thoughts in her diary when she was my age. And feelings. And all such other girly things.

I know that Dad seems to think I'm a lot like my mom, but this is going too far. I'm not a chick. At the very least, she could have gotten me something with 'Journal' printed fatly on the spine. Not 'Diary.' Please no. Imagine if anyone saw me with this thing: "Ociffer, you've gotta believe me, my mom bought it for me! Honest! …Yes, I'm serious, stop questioning my sexuality, damn it!"

I guess this is their way of trying to help me with whatever troubled teenage boy problems I might be having that I won't talk to them about. Phil has his therapy sessions once a week, Ham has his violent sports, Amanda's life is sunshine and unicorn poop, and now I have a diary. Splendid. All offspring accounted for. Good work, Mum and Dad, you've truly outdone yourselves.

Well, great. What am I supposed to talk about?

I guess I could always take Mom's advice and talk about my feelings. That could work. Not girly at all. Nope.

Well, I was talking with Tiffany this morning over our double frappe mochas and OHMAHGOSH you won't believe it, Diary, she said Rebecca totes hooked up with John-John. She heard it from Ashley who heard it from Theresa who heard it from Sadie who heard it from the creepy janitor with that weird mustache thing on his lip that has all those Cheetos crumbs stuck in it who supposedly heard it from his alleged girlfriend (whose gender remains in question), Pam-Pam DingleBury.

Or was it DingleBottom? IdleSnot? IdleDingleBottomSnot?

Oh yes, _Idleberry_. Of course. Pfffft. She would be the one to spread news like that. Everybody knows John-John's _**mine**_! That Rebecca bitch better back the fluff up if she knows what's good for her! With her eighty-piece makeup kit and cheap-ass faux handbag! So a knock-off! John-John deserves a girl with more expensive taste so he can be properly run into bankruptcy!

No, but seriously, my love life's ready for the sad violin treatment. Sophie keeps rejecting my date invitations. She's too _busy_. It's been bumming me out. "I'm busy." Hmph. What's that supposed to mean anyway? Some kind of chick code for "Screw you"? She can't hide from me forever! I'll throw her over my shoulder and lock her away in my cave, growl at any trespassers and offer her bones for dinner. See how busy she is _then_.

Okay, wow, did I just write something actually _relevant_? By the gods, the apocalypse must truly be near. I'd better stock back up on tomato juice and marshmallows. And bones, maybe. Just in case.

Oh well. Sophie's rejection has given me a pretty free social agenda, so it's not like I have anything better to do right now anyway. Phil's all but barricaded the living room for himself and Amanda's asleep and, oh yes, did I mention it's Friday? So no school tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or the day after that.

Maybe I should just go nag Josh incessantly until he does something entertaining. We could watch a movie in his room. Ehhh… Nah, he'd just end up wanting to talk about some geek thing, or, worse, _jock thing_, and that gets old real fast. He's always got to point out pointless things in films and tell me useless facts too. "This actor starred in that film. That prop was used for a thing. Lemon juice is a great stain remover." Blah blah blah, who _cares_?

_Wow_ I'm bored. Okay. New tactic. How about a game of tic-tac-toe?

**X_|O|_X**

**O_|O|_X**

**X_|X|_O**

Best two out of three, Me? What do you say? No? Oh, it's okay. You're too crafty for me anyways. And handsome too. How _do_ you manage to stay so wonderfully pale? Oh, what's that? _Sunscreen_? Oh, of course, it's so obvious! How could I not have thought of that? Oh, wait, I did, because I'm you. Well, well, well, I am a lucky devil. Okay, moving on.

This morning Reuben greeted me by flicking a handkerchief my direction before coasting around the corner. An embroidered one, too, with blue lace trim. No, your eyes aren't deceiving you. Naturally I responded by giggling and trying to hide my girlish blush. I wonder if Reub-y realizes how easy it would be to assume he's gay. Riley would have a field day with that, no doubt. I should tell her about it. Get my good deed for the day over with.

Then again I am the one laying here writing in a little blue diary with my mom's purple ink pen. Maybe I don't have much room to speak. Maybe.

Nah, I'll laugh anyway. HAHAHAHA… ha.

Jaron did that horrible thing today where he thinks. It was terrible. He ended up asking me if I had any middle names, since all my sibs have them. I replied, "Noooo, as the first born, my parents hadn't realized just how creative they could be yet, so I'm just Zack." He believed me. HA. I feel like I should feel guilty but I can't muster the energy. It doesn't matter anyway, nobody's ever gonna be finding out about _that_.

On another note, blue hair dye's expensive. I don't know how emos maintain all that glossy hair and thick make up, let alone where they find jeans tight enough to make it look like they don't even have asses. Seems like a lot of trouble to go to just to announce to the world you '_don't care_.' While I was there, though, I checked to see if they had any hot pink hair dye as well. They did. I'll just leave this here…

[Taped Note] _Note to Self: Save up enough money to purchase pink hair dye. Then use said hair dye on Phil while he's sleeping._

Hmm, then again, if I dyed it green I could say, "What? I thought you liked green!" Hmmm… I'll file that away as Plan B. Or maybe just Plan Tuesday. Plan Wednesday can be purple. Or maybe just an ever-so-slightly lighter shade of brown, just to screw with him. Better yet, I could buy all shades of light brown and use them on him gradually, leading up to the pink and greens, so he just thinks his hair naturally changed color. He's gullible enough, he'd believe it. It's the kind you can wash out, too, so even if he does figure it out, I can just let him think it's permanent for a while. It's fun when he freaks out. He deserves it too, with how he's been snooping about lately. He's such a skuzzy little thing. Hm, if I keep getting ideas like this, I'm gonna have to become a millionaire. I suppose the life of a prankster is no less financially challenging than an emo's. Touche, emos. Touche.

Mom bought donuts again today, with her usual unintentionally sadistic, mom tastes. So that meant I got an eyeful of Dad stuffing a bright pink donut with rainbow sprinkles in his mouth for the third time in a row. Never gets old. Never.

Jaron's new tissue box is a green monster with multiple eyes and sharp teeth. It scares me.

Hmmm… what other pointless things can I write about?

Raspberry and black licorice nut pudding was on sale for the fourth week in a row at the store. Still none sold, and the seventy-something cashier lady, Ms. Slovak, tried flirting with me to try to coax me into buying a few.

And _that_, Diary, is where I draw the freaking line. Criminy…

Goodnight, and unpleasant dreams.

Guh… Keep a diary, they said. It'll be good for you, they said…


	4. Alphabetical Torture

**A/N:** In which Phil is nine and still somewhat new to therapy. Needless to say, he's not very happy with the set up, but his mom insists on it so he goes to keep her happy. Doesn't mean he has to cooperate, though.

**Disclaimer: **I own Phil and Zack. That's it.**  
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**Shortman Shorts  
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**Alphabetical Torture  
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**An ABC poem, AKA, possibly the dumbest of all forms of poetry**

**By Phillip Shortman**

**For Dr. Bliss, who is too cruel to be working with children**

A poem is what I am writing.

But I don't want to be doing this.

'Cause poetry really isn't my thing,

Due to the fact I am a boy.

Except, of course, you don't care.

Filthy women, they never care.

Gah, is this supposed to rhyme?

Ha, oh well.

I really don't care, this is dumb.

JUST KIDDING, I love this!

Kill me.

Listening, that's what you're supposed to do.

Making me do stupid things like this won't make me sane.

Not that you care, you just want to get paid.

Officially, this is the stupidest thing I've ever done.

Please don't ever make me do this again.

Quiet, quiet, that's all I want, just quiet.

Really, that's all I want. To be left alone.

Stupid pen keeps trying to run out of ink.

Truthfully, therapy so far isn't so bad.

Upstairs, in my room—even there it's not quiet.

Viewing out your window is quiet, though.

Which is nice, at least. That last line sounded stupid. 'Viewing,' ugh.

X, X, what am I supposed to do with X? Xylophones?

You really are sadistic, you know?

Zack stinks.

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**A NEW and IMPROVED ABC poem**

**By Phillip Shortman**

**For Dr. Bliss, WHO IS SUCH A DELIGHT**

Apparently my last poem wasn't what you had in mind

Being the good boy I am, I will try to be kind

Careful of your instructions, I'll write some more

Describing my feelings and pretending I'm not bored

Enough so, that you will be forever happy

For your feelings are what are important, I'll be sappy

Grit my teeth and forge on through

Hiding my distaste, I'll be honest and true

I will write a poem about "feelings"

Just like you instructed along with other things

Kind, glorious woman, the hearts you must be stealing

Lovely, just lovely, REALLY, you've left me reeling

Might as well stop fighting and do what you want

No point in arguing, or trying to daunt

Of course you won, you're the woman here, right?

People like you are useless to fight

Quitting while I'm ahead is what is best

Right? So I'll stop being dumb and heed your request

Sitting down, I'll write like you so want me to

To make myself feel BETTER, and stop being so BLUE

Useful tools like poems help for things like that

Vital, like poetry helps pain, water soothes cats

Writing will help make me stop being a NUT

X is still a stupid, pointless letter, so shut

YARGH, it appears I've run out of letters. Whoopsy-daisy.

Zack still stinks. Screw rhyming.

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**A/N: **Yeah... Yeah, the legit-ness is kinda hurting me right now. I enjoy Phil. So much sarcasm. His backstory's gonna be fun.**  
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Every time I write anything for him, though, especially his rants, I feel like I have to just be like, "OPE *Throws all pride out the window* OKAY, NOW LET'S GET TO WRITING." Curse you, Craig, and making a crazy child mandatory. Helga's monologues were bad enough, I still can't watch them without having to plug my ears and count to ten. I didn't need this in my life, man. I have my own craziness to deal with.

Phil: I'M NOT CRAZY!

Shut up, Phil, go crawl back in that hole you dug in my head. Bliss will be waiting with cookies and milk. And the muzzle. Poetry hasn't been going so hot, clearly, so it's time for Plan B... SHOCK THERAPY. :D *ZAP ZAP* WHEEEEEE~

Screw this A/N.**  
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**_REVIEW!_  
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	5. Looking Up: Deleted Scene

**A/N:** A deleted scene from the last part of "Looking Up." I deleted it because A) It was long enough as it freaking was, and B) It didn't fit with the timeline. Still, I wrote it, and I very nearly left it in, so whatevs. Just wanna catalog. :p Enjoy?

**Disclaimer: **I own Zack and Jaron. Just them.**  
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**Shortman Shorts  
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**Looking Up: Deleted Scene  
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**The First Meeting  
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_"Avoiding people, huh?" Zack said with somber understanding, supporting himself by his arms on his knees._

_Jaron looked down at the book hidden in his legs, his lips pursed tight._

_"Your dad says we're going to be going to the same middle school," Zack said, tilting his head at a ridiculous angle in an attempt to catch his eyes. "So I guess we'll be seeing each other more often."_

_In the end, the glint of the florescent light on his glasses destroyed any chance at knowing where his eyes even were, and he couldn't get a good enough angle to correct the fact. Hopelessly, Zack stood from the toilet and began towards the door._

_"Are," Jaron's reluctant voice stilled the hand reaching for the doorknob, his voice cracking for just a second before he continued, unsurely, "Are you really the Zack Shortman, as in, the guy with a superfluous amount of friends? I mean, I've known you for some time, but I haven't really seen you in public since the vacant lot some years back and…" He took a breath. "There could be another Zack I'm not aware of."_

_Zack found himself staring a second too long and immediately puffed up his chest, pride swelling inside him. He'd known he was popular, but not enough to warrant a question like that. Nonetheless—"No, I am that Zack—Zachary Shortman, the one and only, in the flesh. Hold your applause, thanks." He smirked wickedly, just before the sleeves of his shirt fell down his arms again. His smirk dropped and he let out a silent sigh, beginning work on the tiresome sleeves once more._

_Jaron apparently chose not to respond to this information, as he sat stilly in the bathtub and merely looked back down at his book again._

_There was a silence after that, one that Zack was beginning to find increasingly uncomfortable._

_"Well then," Zack said, looking almost longingly at the door, "it was nice to finally meet you." Under his breath, he muttered, "Sorta." He fumbled for the doorknob, before gripping it tight and preparing to swing it open and make for the nearest closet to recuperate._

_He stopped himself, though, for just a second, and he lingered. Glancing back over at sweater vest boy, he tilted his head slightly before saying, as an afterthought that seemed to nearly give Jaron a heart attack, "Not to ruin the ending for you, but that book has a really sad ending. I don't know if that's your thing, but I didn't much like it. Not the best escape." Jaron blinked at him, surprised._

* * *

With that, he made to open the door, but Jaron's sudden, startlingly loud, "Wait," stopped him once more.

A look over at him revealed the boy to be twitching rather erratically, and Zack gave him a questioning look.

Rather than answering, Jaron moved to make a space in the tub, and placed his book up on the side, revealing the title to him. "Where the Red Fern Grows," it read, though Zack didn't have to look to know that. Zack raised half of his brow, half-uncomprehending and half hoping he was wrong.

Jaron didn't make to invite him directly. He just sat there, and stared at him a moment, before asking, "Do you read Purdy Boy?"

Zack's hand dropped from the doorknob. "You read Purdy Boy?" he asked in disbelief.

Jaron's smile was shaky. "Found them in a box in my dad's room."

"Same here," Zack said half a breath after he'd spoken, standing still in the middle of the bathroom.

They stared at each other. Flecks of dust floated through the air around them, illuminated by the light bulbs above the mirror.

"Do you," Zack began, eying him with scrutiny, "like them?"

Jaron blinked at that, before reaching up to adjust his glasses. "Juvenile at best…"

"But," Zack drew the word out almost like a warning, squinting his eyes at him.

Jaron cracked a smile, an enthusiasm in it that couldn't be faked. "Amazing," he finished, a breathiness following the word.

Instantly Zack was crossing the room, and he stepped effortlessly into the tub, before hunching down to sit Indian-style, a large grin on his face. "I didn't know anyone else even knew they existed."

Jaron looked scared for a split second before he relaxed, albeit forcibly, and smiled. "I didn't either."

"How'd you know to ask?"

"You read," Jaron said simply, picking his book back up to place in his lap, tapping his fingers against it lightly.

Zack nodded, eyes wandering to the bottom of the tub in thoughtfulness. "Admittedly, not for a while." He allowed his eyes to shift back up, and grinned. "But I used to. Almost constantly." Scooting closer, ignoring Jaron's widening eyes, he asked, "Which Purdy Boy book's your favorite?"

The tapping on the book got a little faster. "Frankenstein," he decided, lips quirking. "I like the mystery behind it, but on top of that I just like the monster."

"I'm partial to Dracula myself," Zack said slyly, jokingly bringing up one of his shirt tails to conceal his face, a rush of air hissing past his lips. "Don't be afraid, I only want to suck your blood."

"No, no, no," Jaron said loudly, startling Zack with his sudden aliveness as he placed his book beside him. "You have to say it with a Transylvania accent."

"I can't. It all just sounds Russian to me, like the only way you could say it like that is to have several raisins jammed up your nose and a whole lot of phlegm," Zack admitted, snorting. "I'm not good with accents."

"Romanian, not Russian," he corrected without a thought. "And it's not so difficult, you just have to break it down into parts," Jaron informed him, back to his quiet, subdued tones as he turned himself so he was facing Zack in the tub. With them now face-to-face, Jaron cleared his throat, and said slowly, "Do'nt be af'vraid, I oan'ly vant to sock yor blod."

Zack immediately burst into laughter, falling back into the tub in hysterics. "Oh, criminy, say it again! Say it again!"

"Vhy?" Jaron asked tremblingly, sounding frightened. Clearing his throat sharply then, he tried again, "Why?"

"Because!" Zack burst up from the tub, grinning at him wildly. "_That_ was beautiful!"

Jaron blinked, his eyelids snapping back like a snake. "It was?"

"Yeah," Zack outright cackled, falling back to rest against the side of the tub now as he basked in the hilarity of the moment. "That was really cool."

"Cool?" Jaron looked at him like he'd just broken into perfect French.

Zack looked over at him with a scrunched expression, as if to say, 'Are you serious?' "Yeah," he said brightly, still smiling, albeit incredulously.

The room descended into an awkward silence, slightly disappointing Zack as he had thought they'd moved past that. The boy was ridiculously quiet, in a way Zack had never been, not even when he used to hide behind trashcans and read. He'd never had a problem speaking to people, and the silence was eating at him. He needed this distraction. Before he could panic or think to leave, Jaron asked, relieving Zack, "Why did you stop reading?"

Zack looked over at him, half of his eyebrow raised. A moment passed. He grinned. "I made a friend. Then reading didn't seem so important anymore. Like, why read about life when you can be experiencing it?"

Jaron blinked at that, glancing down at the book in his lap once more before looking back at Zack. His lips twitched slightly, like they wanted to smile. And then they did.

"You're not anything like I'd have pictured," Jaron admitted, a slight wince in his features like admitting that was an offense.

"You either," Zack responded with a hint or irony, smirking.

* * *

**A/N: **Ahahaha... so much pointlessness. YOU GUUUIIIISE. Haha.

_**REVIEW?!**_


	6. Justifiably Cruel

**A/N: **Some time back when I first started this little ficlet collection, I told you guise if there was anything you wanted to read, that I'd see what I could do. I had one person ask if I could write Chris jealous of Amanda, and I was totally down with that concept... But to be honest, I wasn't sure if they meant jealous of her as in "Omg that hair clip's so purty I want it" or "Omg, that's my b*tch, back the hell up, bro." Uh, sounds dumber written out like this, but the blonde in me was confused, I guess. xDDD So I didn't really do anything for a while. But the internet's been off for two days, so in between television and drawing, this kind of just... happened. xD I'm not sure if it fits with the prompt or not, to be honest, but, well, it exists. xD Hope you guys like it!**  
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**Disclaimer: **I own Chris and Amanda. "HEY ARNOLD!" not so much.**  
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**Shortman Shorts  
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**Justifiably Cruel**

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There are a lot of things Chris isn't certain of. He's not certain what's for lunch today, he's not certain what the weather will be, he's not certain that he won't step on gum today, as he seems talented in doing, and he's not certain that his aunt will be home when he rides back on his skateboard. But there is one thing he's always been certain of, and that's that it's really, really fun to screw with Amanda Faith.

Most people see her and immediately coo and caw and gawk. They see the sweet smiles and big eyes and shiny Mary-Janes and think her the perfect little girl. But Chris knows better. He's _seen_ things. He's seen her blow her top and scream and rage like a regular brat, stomping her feet and punching walls. He's seen what happens once she's gotten to the end of her rope, and it's the complete opposite of perfect and sweet. He knows the truth. She's nothing but a wound-up doll waiting for someone to light her fuse. And he loves it. Gets a thrill out of having her seethe and spit in his face. He wants her to do it.

Maybe that makes him a jerk, but he's always known he was a lowlife, and unlike her, he doesn't deny it. He's dumb, and he's cruel, and he doesn't care. It's who he is, and no one, not Mr. Shortman, not Amanda, and not Emmi-whatever, can change that.

But he can change her. He can make her show her true colors. No more Sunshine-Marie acts for her when he's around. He considers it his quest in life to prove to people she's not perfect, though she always seems to blow her top just in time for everyone to be out of earshot. But he'll win one of these days, she can't deny her true nature for long, not with him doing everything in his power to destroy every semblance of composure on her pale, pretty little face. And the best part is that all he has to do is be himself, break every rule in the book and be the no-good little misfit he is—and far be it from him to deny _his_ true nature.

Amanda Faith's purpose to him is to be tortured and defied. And he does that job well. Really well. He takes pride in that.

So it's understandable that when the foreign exchange student, Ching Wee-Weener or whatever, decides it's fun to pull on her pigtails, and Amanda giggles and bats his hand away like it's all some kind of adorable joke, he feels pushing him into the shallow, muddy end of the lake at the park is fully justified. That was the most pathetic attempt at annoying Amanda he'd ever seen.

Now, having the new Chinese boy run off crying with mud caked in his mouth and stuffed up his nose, that was a good way to get her really irritated. Angry, even, as her heated glare was proving to him, and he sniffed at her, smirking at the ground. What could he say? He was good at what he did.

The fact Amanda actually sincerely liked the kid was just a bonus.


	7. Commercialled Out

**A/N: **I regret nothing.**  
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**Disclaimer: **Zachary Shortman and Joshua "Ham" Shortman are mine. Steal and prepare to be killed until you die from it. "HEY ARNOLD!" ain't mine, though, obviously.**  
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**Shortman Shorts  
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**Commercialled Out**

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"Stay tuned," the handsome man voice instructed, before the show clicked off to black a second.

Zack sat slouching on the couch and nodded, his face void of any real reaction. "Okay," he said quietly, agreeing to the man's request. He didn't have anywhere else to be anyway.

But a moment later, a commercial clicked on, and Zack made a small noise of protest. Grabbing the remote from beside himself, he skipped ahead, past the commercial for sheds and what he guessed must be some new kind of insurance commercial, based on the suited men hiding in the back of a truck, before the remote's skip button stopped working. His first instinct was to check the batteries, but the light was still working, and the arrow still present on the screen when he pressed. So he was live now. Lovely.

An old man was present on the TV, balding with his face near-unrecognizable through his sagging skin. He spoke merrily, though, making Zack raise half his eyebrow, "—and I've been sleeping wonderfully ever since, no random urges or—" He stopped listening there, once more stubbornly trying to make the skip button work.

A new man came on then, unfortunately catching his ears, "I used to wake up all night long with urges to use the bathroom, but now with Super Beta Prostate, I get a full night's rest and am able to wake up rejuvenated and, ready to start the day." The old man grinned, completely unaware of the fact he'd just made the blond sixteen-year-old's eyes bulge.

A new voice clicked on then, one suspiciously close to the handsome man's voice from before, and the screen flashed to white with a bottle labeled "Super Beta Prostate" and "Super Beta Prostate" in large letters over it to the right, along with the website "Superbeta dot com" in the bottom left corner in blue. The voice spoke handsomely, "Order your Super Beta Prostate today, while supplies last. Call now and get a free bottle of Super Beta Prostate. Limited time offer only. These babies are selling like hot cakes."

Zack blinked, his eyes having fallen back to their void state. "Oh," he murmured, once more determinedly clicking on the skip button. It still refused to work, and he pursed his lips tightly. "Damn it."

"Super Beta Prostate changed the life of my wife and I—"

"Oh." Press.

"My prostate used to keep me up all night—"

"Oh." Press, press.

"I used to live in constant fear that my prostate would—"

"Oh, okay." _Press_. The TV zapped to black, and Zack sighed, sagging all the more into the couch. "So much for that."

Ham walked into the room then with a sandwich, and sat down beside him before taking a big bite. Zack smiled, feeling a bit more alive as he sat up and gave a closer eye to the sandwich. "Is that ham, Josh? I've seen you do some questionable things before, but cannibalism is just—"

"Super Beta Prostate," Ham interrupted simply, still chewing.

Zack fell silent.

Then, "So you're telling me you're eating a prostate sandwich?"

Ham stopped at that, his tongue running over the front of his teeth a moment before he stood up and left the room, leaving his sandwich sitting on the couch. He didn't look back. Zack smirked, reaching over to retrieve his prize and study it with smug satisfaction. "Too easy."

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**A/N:** My mom's asked me my entire life why I like commercials... and this is why... SUPER BETA PROSTATE *Dead* It's almost as good as that perfume commercial with the trying-too-hard sexy chick in the sheets and the hot dudes, with that whispering voice that's trying to say "Chatel" or something that to me just sounds like, "Sh!tteh," every two seconds. "Sh!tteh... Sh!tteh... Sh!tteh... *Chick spraying perfume with hot guy there* It's Sh!tteh, BUY IT" *Even deader* I REGRET ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME.

**_IF YOU REVIEW I'LL CRY FROM LAUGHTER AND PROLLY LOVE YOU FOREVER_**

**_OMG  
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	8. Haunted

**WARNING: **SPOILERS FOR "LOOKING UP" IN "LIFE WITH THE SHORTMANS." Only proceed if you A) have read it, B) don't mind being spoiled, or C) don't give a flying rat-trap. If you are of the C population, though... why are you here? o_0

Anyway, I've been writing a lot lately, and this kinda happened. I'm really ridiculously pleased with myself for this. I don't really know why. But whatever, leave me alone to be happy, these times are fleeting and we all know it.

Enjoy?!

**Disclaimer: **"HEY ARNOLD!" obviously doesn't belong to me. Zachary Shortman and the "Life with the Shortmans" gang belong to meh, though. Pam belongs to **Panfla** AND I, but Mike belongs exclusively to **Panfla**. *Pouts in corner* S'not fair, yo, s'not fair at all.**  
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**Dedication: PETER PANFLA** MKGLKGNLKSNGLLS BIRTHDAYS

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**Haunted**

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The Idleberry home had always been a less than welcoming place, even before the Idleberrys had moved in. The floorboards creaked and the wallpaper peeled, even after new paper had been glued in place and the old had been scraped off with a shovel. Not to mention the single lightbulb in the hallway that always flickered the precise moment you walked beneath it. Zack was skeptical of ghosts, even after that one fateful night he, Jaron, and his brother had stayed the night and Jaron had nearly peed himself, but even he had to admit the place was creepy.

The Idleberrys for the most part seemed completely unaffected by the house's eccentricities. Mike even celebrated them, smirking as he stood out front of the house at the kids that would take one look and run away, even going so far as to wave and grin when they got too close, making sure his piercings and punk blue hair were as visible as possible. Pam, on the other hand, just seemed too caught up in her own life to care whether or not dark forces were at play, and Ms. Idleberry would just roll her eyes and say, "Of course," whenever the room went cold, before heading downstairs into the leaky, pitch black basement to fiddle with the heater. In other words he lived next door to people who were either complete badasses without a cause, or utterly ignorant to the fact they were living in Satan's playhouse.

Zack really didn't care. Ghosts were a stupid thing to believe in in the first place, going right along with luck and any other superstitious gobbledygook. No, the scariest thing about the Idleberry house was and always would be the Idleberrys, Michael Idleberry first and foremost. Which was exactly why as soon as the door was closed and the lock clicked safely (or unsafely) into place, the first thing he noticed wasn't the draft, or the chipped wallpaper, or even the lightbulb that had suddenly decided to do it's best imitation of a fairy after twenty-two thousand children said fairies didn't exist. It was his self-proclaimed mortal enemy, standing straight across from him, staring.

Said boy was currently standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall and staring at him with hazel eyes just as frightening as he'd always remembered them to be as a child. His t-shirt and unbuttoned vest hung loosely over his form, with jeans falling just a little too casually and ear piercings just a little too polished. His dark black hair was dusted with royal blue, falling in sharp strands into his too-white face and dark, narrowed eyes.

And Zack didn't have to ask to know that he _knew_.

Mike Idleberry knew everything, and Zack admitted to himself at that moment what Jaron, Phil, and practically everyone he'd ever known had been trying to tell him for years. What he now could not deny. What he could see with his own eyes, the truth staring back at him with a swirling hazel brown.

This house was more hellish than Vladimir Dracula's castle.

And Zack had never felt more haunted.

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**A/N: **And that was saying a lot.

Why is Mike mad? Use your imagination! I'd love to hear what you guys' evil minds can concoct. xD

I find it funny that Mike has blue hair 'cause I hung out with the guy I had been in love with for nearly four years back in elementary skool some months ago, and he had blue hair, and as a result my first words to him after almost four years were, "Da ba dee da ba die." And he was like, "I LOVE THAT SONG." And I was like, "Haha, good for you, everyone does, now sit down and shut the hell up." ...secretly, in my head. Now I can't think of Mike without thinking of that. Hehehehe... *Licks axe*

Okay, my fronds, I've got a poll up on my profile. Go vote, plz. Thankers.

_**HAHAHA, REVIEW?!**_

Did I creep you out? *Polishes axe with the tears of children* How about now?

No? Well, I'll keep trying. Everyone needs a dream.


	9. But, Ted, Why

**A/N: **No one is ever around when I'm watching TV and a funny commercial comes on... so I usually just end up rolling around on the couch squealing with laughter before I run in here and write crap. I think this is turning into a series. XD Still no regrets.

**Disclaimer: **I own the stuff that is my stuff and not your stuff or Craig's stuff but my stuff. My stuff.

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**Shortman Shorts  
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**But, Ted, Why**

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Zack and Ham sat beside each other on the sofa, waiting for the baseball game to come back on as commercials flashed across the screen in a blur. In a blur, that is, because they were not actually paying any attention.

"So I told her that I wouldn't go out with her, and she got all angry at me and asked, listen to this, she asked me if it was because she was blonde. And I asked her what she meant, and she said, quoted, 'Dumb blonde, hello?' And everyone just went silent." Ham blinked at him, twisting his face as Zack laughed. "She does realize I'm blond, right? Like, does she think that only applies to girls or something? Isn't that a little… sexist? Can girls be sexist?"

"Girls can totally be sexist," Zack assured, still laughing as he relaxed back on the couch, feet propped up. "But you can't accuse someone you don't even know of thinking you are something that you are. That's got the be the biggest fail to date." He laughed again as Ham gave a quiet chuckle, before he started coughing suddenly and Ham went silent with alarm. He beat his palm against his chest a couple times as the coughs wracked his body, before they tapered off with a wheeze. Sighing in relief, Zack ran a hand through his hair and gave a hoarse chuckle. Ham looked at him in concern.

"You okay over there," he asked, a hint of amusement underlining his words. Zack nodded distractedly, waving him off. "Yeah, yeah, I'm just getting a little cold, I think." Ham hummed.

A feminine, sultry voice came from the TV suddenly and both boys snapped at attention. She spoke pleasantly, images of coughing and sneezing people as they walked through crowds of grayed out pedestrians flashing across the screen, "Colds suck."

Zack snorted at that and coughed again. "Yeah, no duh, girl friend."

"I wonder how long it took her to figure that one out," Ham said dryly, and they both snickered. He stopped then suddenly, and looked over to Zack with a frown. "That wasn't sexist was it?"

"No, now shush, this actually looks interesting." Ham's eyebrows flew up in surprise at that, watching in momentary shock as Zack leaned forward with an intent look.

The woman's voice went on, as clips of random attractive people played, all shown spraying something in their mouths. At first Ham thought it was some sort of breath spray commercial, which was interesting he guessed 'cause he'd never seen one before, but the woman corrected him when she said, "With new Cold-EEZE spray, you can shorten colds with just two sprits of a bottle. Anywhere you go, just two sprays will shield germs from entering your system, blocking out the virus the second it enters your mouth. Now that's fast relief." A woman sitting on a plane with Cold-EEZE held up in her hand grinned for the camera. "For cold protection that will shorten your cold, try Cold-EEZE today."

Ham mentally ah-ed as the commercial explained itself, understanding now as Zack grabbed a pen from his pocket and started looking around hastily for a piece of paper. Finding none, he scribbled it down on his hand, blowing on it to make the ink dry faster. The commercial hadn't ended however, as the CEO of the Cold-EEZE company, apparently, came on directly after the woman.

With a receding hairline that could put Chris Meloni's to shame, the short, shiny-headed man spoke in the plainest of voices, "Hello, I'm Ted Karkus—"

Both teenagers stopped dead. Unspeaking, Zack grabbed the remote up and froze the television. Rewinding it, he played it back.

"Hello, I'm Ted Karkus—"

_Rewind._

"I'm Ted Karkus—"

_Rewind._

"Ted Karkus—"

_Rewind._

"Hello, I'm Ted Karkus, CEO of Cold-EEZE—"

_Pause._

The two teenagers sat in silence for a long time.

Finally, Zack managed to speak, "What the hell did he just say?"

Ham blinked. "I think he said his name is Carcass."

"Ted Carcass?"

"Yes. But I think it was with a K?"

Zack gaped at the television, his eyes going glassy and cross-eyed for a second before the remote dropped from his hand to the couch and he fell back into the cushions with a high-pitched, "Ha!"

Ham put a hand to his face, closing his eyes. "To a cold commercial. The CEO of a company that works in medicine is named Carcass."

"Well, it is official," Zack decided, before sitting up straight and waving his hand in the air, procuring an invisible scepter. With a clear of his throat and one last wave of his hand for effect, he decreed, "I hereby decree today Fail Friday. And sir Carcass, I dub thee the Court Jester of all Faildom." Sniffing a little, he muttered under his breath, "Until further notice."

Ham mentally rolled his eyes, but before he could respond to the rather Phil-like display, the baseball game came back on, and all thoughts of dumb blondes, epic failure, and carcasses were put to rest.

No pun intended.

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**A/N: **True story.**  
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**_REVIEW!_**


	10. Happy New—OPPA GANGNAM STYLE

**A/N: **OMFG YOU GUYS I'M DYING I CAN'T BREATHE OMFG OMFG OMFDFOSWS I CAN'T RIGHT NOW**  
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**Disclaimer: **I OWN STUFF SOMETIMES, GET OVER IT**  
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**Shortman Shorts  
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**Happy New****—****OPPA GANGNAM STYLE  
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"Can I go to bed _now_?" the brunet asked dryly, watching as all the grown ups toasted and hollered over the television at each other.

"Oh, come on," the tall, blond goober admonished, throwing back another apple cider like he was dying of thirst before crushing the plastic cup in his hand. "You can't go to bed yet! It's only two more hours before the new year!"

"Yeah," a slightly tipsy Big Bob Pataki agreed, grinning over the beer in his hand as he toasted the air like an old friend. Miriam sat unhappily sober in the chair beside him, sipping at a cider. "Nobody goes to sleep before 12 on New Years! Grab a cider, sit back, and toast in the new year with us! You're plenty old enough!"

"I don't know," an utterly sober Arnold said, looking firm but open to the idea if Phil changed his mind. "New Years is kind of a grown up holiday, Bob. If he doesn't want to be around us while it's going on, I can't blame him." Kneeling down on the floor in front of his youngest son, he put a hand on his shoulder and said kindly, "You can go on up to bed now if you want, Phil."

"But, Dad," the goober exclaimed, gawking at him like he'd sprouted a second head. "He's stayed up this long, what's two more hours? I'm not going to bed!"

"You're older than him, Zack," his father gently put.

Zack gave a loud snort and threw his cup towards the trash can, eyes too intent on his father's face to see if he'd made it in or not. The yelp from Ernie Potts was enough sign that he didn't, however. But he didn't care. "Dad, you can't keep encouraging this anti-social behavior. He's already a big party pooper, don't make it worse!"

"Hey, Short Man," his mother suddenly came stumbling over. She threw her arm around her eldest's shoulders and grinned toothily at him. "Did you know that after five drinks even you're starting to look like a football head?"

"I'm out," Phil declared, grabbing his blanket from Zack's hand and marching out of the room.

"Hold up, ev'y body," Mr. Hyunh yelled with dinner-plate eyes, his mouth wide open in shock. Everyone turned to see him pointing urgently at the television. "They are, playing Gangnam Style in Time Square!"

Everyone's jaws dropped.

"_Ah hell to the no_." An instantaneously sober Helga bounded across the room to grab the remote up from a startled Miles' hand and mute the television. Snapping around to look intensely at the rest of her family, who were all staring in a moment of stunned silence, she said very slowly, very seriously, "This? This right here?" She pointed to the Korean man in the white feather jacket and sunglasses currently dancing on stage. "_This never happened_."

Arnold raised an arm in the air and dropped his head, as if to say, 'Amen, wife, amen,' while the rest of the house nodded in agreement.

Ham glanced over to a stricken Zack and whispered, "Maybe Phil made the right call?"

Zack glanced back. He blinked, before something sly crossed his face. "Oppa gangnam style," he began to quietly sing, gaining in volume. Ham's eyes went wide, and he tried to shush him quick.

Something crashed above his head suddenly, silencing both teens, and Zack whipped his head over to see his mom stiff and pointing a rod-straight arm into his face, scowling. "_Never happened, Zachary_. Never. Happened. Do you understand me, young man?" Her eyes went into fiery slits.

Zack swallowed hard. "Yes, Mommy."

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**A/N:** I STILL CAN'T BREATHE I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS HAPPENED YOU GUYS WTF I'M NOT EVEN JOKING WITH THIS.

GANGNAM STYLE WAS JUST SUNG ON LIVE TELEVISION IN TIME SQUARE FOR NEW YEARS. YOU GUYS. W. T. F. I AM LAUGHING SO HARD.

LIFE. WHAT IS LIFE? WHATEVER IT IS IT'S BEEN COMPLETED IN SOME FASHION, THAT'S ALL I KNOW. OMFG. ROFLMBO! WHAT THE HELL IS EVEN WITH THIS HOW DID THIS JUST HAPPEN

_**HAPPY NEW YEARS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!**_

I am listening to "Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons for New Years Eve and Day. Just wanted to share that. Great New Years song, guys! Much more appropriate! XD Let me know how your New Years went! :D

**_~SuprSingr_**


	11. Banished

**A/N: **I've started working on Phil's chapter. This is a part that was bugging the hell out of me because it was so crappy and was slowing down the plot, but I liked the thought, so I didn't want to just banish it to hell. Found a solution, though. I'LL JUST BUG YOU GUYS :'D**  
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Enjoy, suckers! :'D

**Disclaimer: **Phil's mine. Zack's mine. Steal and prepare to be obliterated. **  
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**Shortman Shorts  
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**Banished****  
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* * *

Poetry is for girls. _Poetry is for girls_, he'd said. He still remembered when he'd dragged out his mother's big book of Shakespearean poetry and attempted to consult him on it. He'd looked at him so strangely and laughed so soundly, that Phil had been ashamed for ever having considered the book even vaguely interesting. Now the memory that had once embarrassed him filled him with contempt. Phil could be accused of many things, and he knew them all—selfish, short-tempered, cold, smart-alecky, and even at times a tad... overzealous—but at least he wasn't a liar.

He was always honest, even if people didn't want it of him. Strictly. And—call him cold, call him cruel, if it makes you feel better—he simply didn't care if he hurt anyone's feelings. Sometimes feelings needed to be hurt. Sometimes feelings _wanted_ to be hurt. And really, even in his most fervent attempts not to, he had and seemed forever doomed to offend, so he'd given up on any attempts at politeness at a very young age. He wasn't even sure he'd ever understood the concept. He didn't want to hurt people, but as the circumstances were, dwelling was pointless. People wanted to be offended as far as he could see. Even the slightest word could send someone crying to the principal's office, and Phil was working so hard to be good with words.

Society seemed to have these invisible stepping-stones they jumped around on in front of people, like some bizarre mental game of twister. They twisted and stretched and would all but break themselves in half to not offend anyone, laying out any insincere compliment and plastic smile they could afford to do so, while meanwhile he was blind to all of it and just ended up plowing through and knocking everybody down. And in a sick sort of way, he kind of liked it. He liked catching people off guard and making them question themselves. Was that so wrong? Did that make him like Zack? _Of course not_.

He just wasn't good at games. They were stupid. Zack's game was stupid. But he had to play it. He had to play it because he _hated him_—

* * *

**Not Banished**

A wind blew through suddenly and he shivered, whether just from the cold or the intensity of his own emotions, he didn't know. But he still couldn't think straight, and he couldn't remember how far he'd walked. The buildings all started bleeding together after a certain point, and his thoughts were spinning around in an endless circle that was starting to make him dizzy.

Only one person could make them stop. Or, really, there was a small few who could, and admittedly his first instinct had been to run to his mom, but that would only be more things for Zack to laugh at him about. More than that, though, was the fact that crying to her would illicit demands of an explanation, and as unsecretive as Phil fancied himself, this was one situation he would gladly keep under his hat.

* * *

**A/N: **I added the tiniest bit extra... Call it a taste of what's to come. xD

Btw, the initials of the title of Phil's chapter are "BS"... ROFLMBO, it is all BS, it's so accurate.

Well, hope you're all enjoying your New Year... even if we did gangnam style our way into it. XD OMFG I'M STILL LAUGHING... Anyway!

**_REVIEW!_**


	12. Home Video

**A/N: **This was something I took out of Phil's chapter. I had this skit at the beginning where Phil was watching home videos and skipping over scenes from his childhood. It gave away too much too soon, though, so I cut it. This is only one bit of the skit, which was (ironically) cut out of the skit's final product and banished to my "Deleted Scenes" file. Phil's about eight here, and it's super short, but I really just want it out of my way. I'm trying to make space. So here. Enjoy, I suppose.

**Disclaimer: **I own the things that Craig doesn't.

* * *

**Shortman Shorts  
**

**Home Video**

* * *

"Hey… Hey, Zack."

"Wha? …Oh, Phil, get that out of here. I'm not in the mood."

"Why do you think I'm here? Smile!"

"I don't want to…"

"Yes you do!"

"Please, Phil, buddy, it's too early for this. Go bug Josh."

"I already tried. He's in the bathroom."

"All the more reason to catch him on video. Maybe then we can finally settle whether he's really a boy or not."

"…What?"

"Never mind. Go get Mom on camera then—Oh, speak of the devil!"

"Mom, smile!"

"What… What's th—Oh, criminy, Phil, get that out of here! I haven't brushed my hair or had coffee or anything! Do you want to scar us all for life?"

"Maybe."

"…Darling, you know I love you, but I have no control of my mouth at six in the morning so you're going to have to back off before I say something we all regret."

"I just wanted to add to the home videos…"

"Okay… Okay, how about, how about you go get some footage of Amanda while she's still asleep? That'd be cute."

"_No_."

"Dad then?"

"Is he awake?"

"Good morning, my lovely family!"

"Does that answer your question?"

"Ah, shit. Another morning person. Someone, kill it."

"Love you too, dear."

"Eh."

"Oh, Phil, you've got the camera! Great! First day of third grade! You excited?"

"No."

_Click._


	13. Looking Up: Cut Scenes

**A/N: **While looking through my Deleted Scenes file, I was a little horrified by how much of Zack's chapter I really did end up cutting. I'm glad I did in the long run, because none of it was coming out right and it was driving me crazy, but it's still _a lot_... It's a little petrifying to think how many hours I just sat in front of a computer screen pulling my hair out. XD And to be frank... There's a big part of me that's angry, cut or not, that nobody has ever read any of this crap. xD It didn't fit with the direction I was going, it made the writing feel stodgy, or it was just giving away too much and taking away the subtlety I've been trying to master in my works nowadays, but the sad part is most of it's better written and funnier than what I actually did post, LOL.

So, here you go... Everything from "Looking Up" that I cut. XD FEEL THE PAAAAIIIIN emanating from it all. FEEEEEL.

**Disclaimer: **I almost wish I didn't, but I own Zack, Phil, Ham, and Amanda, LOL. Pam is by both **Panfla** and meh. Taro is by **metalheadrailfan**. AAAAnd Kori is owned by **xxP00h67chu.**

* * *

**Shortman Shorts  
**

**Looking Up  
**

**Deleted Scenes**

* * *

**_Ahoy! There be spoilers ahead!_**

**_Don't care? Then proceed, mortal. It be your grave._**

* * *

**_Reason cut: _**_No room to put it anywhere, couldn't find any place appropriate, and it was also just a tad too weirdly deep. Zack's got a lot of issues, but not quite to this extent. His smugness isn't a facade. It's a defense mechanism, truly, but a mechanism devised by who he truly is, someone who is prone to pride. He just overcompensates. _

* * *

Things were so much _easier_ when no one knew who you were. That way they could insult you, call you every name in the book but it couldn't ever hurt you because _you knew_. You knew that wasn't who you really were. They didn't have to pass by the mirror every day and see a fake. They didn't feel the force behind every grin or the lie hidden beneath every word. You could be invincible that way. A superhero whose identity was eternally hidden, a pretty face that could be beaten a hundred times but still retain it's pride. And you could have fun doing it even. Who didn't like a confident face and charming smile? A funny joke and happy laugh? People liked pretty things. Things that lightened the mood and made forgetting easy.

Because they didn't like seeing the cold, hard truth—nobody wanted to see a battered child or tear-streaked face, hear a serious tone talking about all the things that haunted the world. Those things were ugly, reminded them too much of themselves and the things they couldn't accept. That got people defensive and angry, made then want to yell, and though it may be easy to handle that when you weren't yourself, when you were deadly honest with someone, that could kill you.

Zack wasn't about to ever let his vulnerable side show. Nobody wanted to know who he really was anyway, and when you got down to it, he wasn't quite sure himself who he was. How could you ever know when nobody ever gave you a chance? When all anyone ever wanted to do was judge you and tell you what was wrong with you?

When the world was out to get you, the only answer was to buckle down and put up the shields. But behind that, behind every crazy comment and gleaming grin, he was that boy that sat alone reading behind trash cans. He was every thought that boy had, every turn of the page and lick of his finger. He was silence and he was contemplation, and he was content that way. But that wasn't pretty. That wasn't interesting. Who would care? If he were a story, who would read about a boy like that? Only someone really weird who had nothing better to do.

The truth of the matter was, the world was a screwed up, unfair, complicated place, and though Zack was a deep thinker, he thought in very broad terms. The world wanted perfection, so… that's what Zack would give. Plain and simple.

And people readily accepted that. People liked pretty things.

That was what Zack was. A pretty thing.

And that was just the way he liked it.

* * *

_**Reason cut:** Originally I had it so Helga and Arnold actually caught Zack sneaking out. I had this big confrontation in my head that probably would've been pretty funny, and ended up in Zack's being grounded for like a year, but in the end I cut it because I needed to set the groundwork for Zack's ego and cockiness. If he was caught at this vulnerable point in time for him, he would've been totally discouraged and never become what he is today. He needed to feel like he could get away with anything, and with this being one of the biggest, craziest, and stupidest things he's ever done, he needed to get off scott-free. Even if it was the only time he ever really would._

* * *

Zack arrived back home a few hours later, as the sun was just beginning it's fast approach to the other side of the world and leaving all the surroundings with the last rays of day. The sun glistened and danced on the treetops and spread it's limbs wide on the ashen road, making it appear almost golden.

The first thing he noticed as he walked up the long road was that his mom's car was there. Air whooshed past his teeth and in an instant he was racing over to the side of the house to his room. Near scrambling, really. And if he'd fallen, he'd have just crawled he was desperate enough.

He nearly tripped when he had to come to an abrupt stop, though, his feet stumbling over each other in horror. The rope was gone. Not fallen to the ground, but pulled up with the window shut.

He didn't know how long he just stared up at his window, his eyes unblinking and mouth open.

* * *

_**Reason cut: **Couldn't find a spot. It's in reference to kids wanting to sign his cast._

* * *

It was like they were signing over their friendship to him. Signing their approval of his existence.

* * *

_**Reason cut: **I wrote this ahead of writing the actual scene. This was just a concept I put down that I couldn't find a way to work into the final piece. Also not entirely accurate, LOL.  
_

* * *

"Oh, ho, ho, what is this?" Phil looked behind at them, bright eyed and bushy tailed with a grin that stretched a mile long. Phil always had been a morning person, and got grumpier as the sun got lower, thus was a fact that caught a lot of people off guard, and Pam was no exception. She'd remembered seeing him storming through the house the night before and giving people dirty looks. The contrast from then and now was unnervingly dramatic. Was everyone in this family crazy?

* * *

_**Reason cut: **Ohhh... Ohhhh, Lord, help me. Jesus, take the dealership, I can't. *Deep breath* Okay. The following are the scenes I originally wrote of Zack and Pam's final confrontation. This was where I had the absolute worst time ever. I can't articulate how many nights I spent trying to scratch my eyeballs out over this. Originally, I had it set in my head that Zack actually would tell Pam all about August. Er, well not 'all about,' but he'd give her the general idea, to answer why he doesn't like her hair. Due to the fact most of Zack's old classmates who actually witnessed everything that went down with August are still strolling around today in his high school, it's safe to say Pam's going to find out EVENTUALLY. _

_But in the end, I finally had mercy on myself and cut all my work in favor of having Zack not tell her a bloody thing. Because whether Pam's going to find out someday or not, it's not something Zack talks about. Ever. It's all a part of his denial. If he says it out loud, it makes it real all over again, and he can't deal with that. He hasn't even told Jaron. Plus the entire scene lacked subtlety in the **extreme**. I didn't want to just spell it out for you guys. NOT TO MENTION IT'S MAJORLY OUT OF CHARACTER IN SOME PLACES. But whatever, here it is: my personal nightmare and the hardest things I have ever had to cut and rewrite a million times. -_-  
_

* * *

Zack: I don't know, it's just always been something I've been good at. I don't know why.

Pam: When did you find out you had a knack for it?

Zack: …Fourth grade. We got a poetry assignment and it just kind of clicked with me. I was stupid back then, proud of it. It wasn't until later on I realized poetry wasn't _for_ boys.

Pam: What happened?

Zack: *Left arm twitches, closes fist on that arm to keep it still* Nothing that wasn't to be expected.

* * *

"He moved away after that," Zack told Pam, filling up the silence of the hallway and shrugging as if it were nothing. "I came to school the next day, and he was gone. Transferred right out. I never saw him again." His eyes flicked to his plaid-clad shoulder and he reached a hand up to flick away a speck of dust.

Meanwhile Pam was staring at him with her eyes gigantic. "Whoa, whoa, okay, let's just take a step back…" She put a hand up, literally taking a couple small steps backwards. She pointed a finger to him then, incredulous, "You told off a bully, in front of the entire school, and that's why you're smug?"

Zack raised half his brow at her, before his eyebrow straightened out and he looked at her a tad dryly. "Well, I'd like to think it wasn't quite that black and white, but sure. If your simple mind can only handle it in broad terms."

"And," she acted as if she didn't even hear him, "you've been treating me like dirt all this time, because your bully had red hair?"

Zack released a breath from his cheeks, scratching at his head. "Well, basically. I think it's a subconscious thing. Like some kind of screwed up defense mechanism. But also, no," his eyes fell flat once more as he looked at her, "that isn't the only reason I dislike you."

Pam rolled her head over to look at him through a dead expression, blinking her eyes in disbelief. "Because I asked about your grade on an English assignment?"

Zack didn't respond.

"Ohhhh come on!" she yelled at him, throwing her arms up in the air. "It's just a teeny, tiny little grade! Why do you have to go crazy about it? It's not like I'll tell anyone! I mean, it's been days and I haven't yet!" Her eyes wide with a hint of desperation in them, she grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him. "That poem was beautiful!"

Zack went stiff as a board. Pam froze along with him, her hands rocks against his arms.

Neither were sure quite how much time had passed in that moment, but Zack was the one to end it, slowly and with obvious trepidation, "How would you know…?"

Pam stared at him with a frozen expression for a few seconds, before she let go of him and laughed a bit weakly, her hand going up to mess nervously with her ponytail. "So maybe, yeah, uh…"

Zack stared at her with the strangest look.

Finally Pam couldn't take it anymore and she groaned, letting her hand fall away. A second later she had Zack by his collar, and was pulling him down nose to nose with her so she could glare at him threateningly. "Okay, I'll tell you, but I've kept your secret, you had better keep mine!"

Zack flailed a little, shocked, before his face fell dry for yet another time. With his hands gripping her forearms, he snapped, "You know, you're not exactly making me feel better about the whole 'Pam is a bully' thing—"

Pam snorted and rolled her eyes, gripping his collar tighter. "Zackass, I'm not a bully. I didn't want to know about your poem so I could try to ruin whatever idiotic reputation you have going, I just…" her face softened, "wanted to talk." Letting go of him in a slightly jerking movement then, she pointed a finger in his face with a harder expression, her eyebrows furrowed. "Now promise to keep what I'm about to tell you a secret!"

With his hands fast working to smooth out his collar, Zack nodded his head slowly. "Okay. I promise."

Pam eyed him suspiciously, unconvinced. "How do I know you're not lying?"

A smirk breezed across his face at her suspicion, and he gave a small, amused chuckle. Sweeping into a joking bow, he gave her his best charming grin, his voice deeply reassuring, "Because I said the word promise, and a Shortman always keeps his word."

As he stood back up, Pam bit her lip a little. Damn. She trusted him. That was never good. But she found she couldn't quite help it and once more, she groaned, her hand and head falling down. After a moment or two more, she finally raised her head up to look at him and confessed, "I knew about your poem since the very beginning, because my mom is Ms. Idleberry."

Zack's eyes went huge. He stared at her a moment, before a shit-eating grin split his face in two. "Pamella Idleberry, huh? How quaint." He held back a burst of snickers, biting down hard on his bottom lip.

"Oh, shut up, _Shortman_." She rolled her eyes. She'd lost count of how many times she'd had to do that around him, but her eyes were starting to get tired.

Luckily the next thing out of his mouth was actually a valid question, "Why is this a big deal again?" Half of his unibrow was raised at her. "So your mom's a teacher, my dad is a teacher, who the hell cares—"

"_I care_," she bit out, pressing a firm hand to her chest as she scowled at him. This was important, damn it. "I just transferred here recently. I'm new, but my mom isn't. She's been teaching at the high school here from before I was even born, but my brother and I were living over with my dad for years, before he decided to get remarried and kicked us out. So I'm in a completely different home practically in the middle of nowhere, and when I found out I'd also be going to the same high school my mom _teaches at_—" she shook her head to the ceiling, "That's humiliating! You know how kids are with that whole 'teacher's daughter' crap. There was a girl at my old school like that, and she was a complete brat because of it, always acted as if she held some power over everyone. Everybody hated her." She rubbed her arm a little, her green eyes resting softly on the floor. "I don't want anybody looking at me differently."

Zack stared at her with a revelation growing in his eyes. "That's why you didn't know it was lunch time."

Pam gave him a funny look, raising a sharp eyebrow. "Way to connect the dots, Einstein."

"But I still don't get it," Zack deadpanned, ignoring her sarcasm. "If you're so against using your mom's status as a super power, why have you been bugging the snot out of me—"

"_Because_," she snapped, cutting him off. Licking her lips a little then, she swallowed and went on normally, her face softer, "I didn't mean for it to work out like this, but I was helping her grade papers one night and I came across your poem. It was really great, and well," she sighed, a hint of ruefulness edging onto her face, "when I read it, I thought, 'Wow, what a thoughtful, deep guy,' and I just had to talk to you." Her face went flat then, the irony etched into every inch of her face. Her tone was utterly dead, "Imagine my surprise."

Zack stilled at that, before rip-roaring laughter suddenly exploded out of his chest and he fell away to the floor. Tears came to his eyes and he slapped a hand to his head, barely able to contain himself. He wheezed joyously, "Holy crap, I can't breathe!" He cackled, falling onto his side as he writhed on the floor. "A deep thoughtful guy! _Deep_!"

Pam's expression turned outraged at his reaction and she stood over him with her hands on her hips. "Shut up! You're an asshole, it's not funny, it's anticlimactic!" She stood back then, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "Although the poem does make sense now. It did sound like a big paranoid baby had written it, and lo and behold." She gestured an arm to him, shaking her head skyward.

Zack's laughter stopped at that, and his glare slapped her in the face. "I'm not paranoid—"

"Yes you are," she corrected him, wagging her finger at him. "You're terrified what that idiot kid said was true, aren't you? You're afraid if anyone finds out you write poetry that you'll lose all respect and everyone will leave you." Taking in his blanched face, she grabbed his hand and tried pulling his lanky butt off of the floor as she grunted, "Well, you're wrong." Zack was surprised when she managed to pull him partially off the floor, and his legs stumbled beneath himself before he gained his bearings and stood up the rest of the way.

MAYBE KILL ALL OF THIS DON'T KNOW TOO TIRED FIGURE OUT LATER

A bit of frustration touched his face then, and he had to ask, "Why is this so important to you? What do you care what I think?"

Pam's eyes danced away a moment, her bottom lip puffed out innocently before she glanced back at him. "Oh, it's nothing. Just that I sort of thought maybe you could write a poem for me…" Her gaze turned hopeful.

Zack did a double take of her, before he balked, "Chickie, I have a girlfriend and I don't even write poems about her, what makes you think—"

"Oh, God, not that." She twisted her face in raw disgust. "I said _for_ me, not about me. There's an Annual Poetry competition that's held every year, and I was kind of hoping if I could get in your good graces, that you'd write an award winning poem for me to enter."

"_What_? Why? What' the prize?"

"A scholarship… We moved to No Man's Land because it's close to a college my brother really wants to go to, but it's really expensive…"

"And you wanted me to win so your brother could get a free ticket to Nerdville—Oh, okay, I'm starting to see the point here."

"…So? Will you do it?"

"What's in it for me? Because, not to be a Captain Obvious here, but you haven't exactly fallen in my good graces. Why would I ever do this for you?"

"Because…" She struggled with a reason. Briefly, the thought crossed her mind that she could use the whole poetry/bully thing as blackmail on him, but he'd gotten upset just over her having red hair. If she did that to him, she truly would be a bully, and something in her couldn't stand to do that. Defeated, she sighed.

* * *

Zack stared down at this girl sneering up at him rabidly, and images started flashing before his eyes. Red hair, red eyes, steam shooting out from nostrils like a bull readying for murder. He could see it all, and he sucked in a breath almost sharp enough to slash through his teeth. He suddenly felt microscopic. He didn't know if he could deal with this. Memories of a life long past kept shooting through his mind, feelings he hadn't felt in years coming back tenfold and making his stomach invert. He didn't know if he could deal with this right now. He needed time.

* * *

"Zack? Zackass? Wake up damn it! I'm trying to threaten your life!"

A slap suddenly cracked his cheek and Zack shook his head fast, blinking his eyes back into focus.

His eyes came to focus on Pam staring at him in utter confusion, contrary to how she'd been yelling a moment ago. Swallowing at her probing green eyes, his only response was a, "Sorry." Coming more back to himself, his blank face turned into a glare. "Don't slap me ever again though! What is with you and violence?"

Pam blinked at him in slight surprise, before her face went flat. "Sorry, I'm just not used to guys being babies about it."

Zack groaned and tilted his head back, rubbing his eyes with a hand.

Pam softened after she realized his situation again, and she put a hand on his shoulder quickly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I forgot."

Zack lifted the hand from his face to look at her, confused. "Forgot what?"

Pam's eyes widened, taken aback, and her mind raced to find a way around seriously repeating anything, "Just—I mean… you know…" Her feet shuffled awkwardly.

Zack realized what she was talking about and instantly his defenses flared. Stepping back out of her hand on his shoulder, he struggled with not simply glaring at her again and tried to act normal. Dusting his shoulder off like he had to get rid of her germs, he said casually with a hint of annoyance, "Look, it wasn't a violent thing. It was just verbal bullying, there's no need to get all weird." The lie came smoothly from his mouth, and his lips smirked as if absolutely nothing was wrong, and he knew she would buy it. "I just never said anything 'cause I didn't want to worry my family. And as for what happened, well…" he shrugged with easy shoulders, "he moved." Possibly the only thing out of all of that that was true.

* * *

"Look, baby, doll-face, he-woman, there's a saying—you catch more devilishly handsome flies with honey than you do with vinegar." The smirk on his face spread only wider.

To say that Pam was discontented by this would be a gross understatement, and she was not the kind of girl to back down, especially not in the smuggest face she had ever bared witness to.

Zack could see clearly she had something to say—no, yell—but he had so little patience for her now. Where she got off destroying a good twenty-four hours of his life before asking for a favor was so far beyond him, he had to look past the moon to see it. So he flitted his hand in her face before she could dare open her mouth again, his own inevitably opening, "Don't bother even trying anymore, you've lost the interest you never had, I'm afraid. Now if you will kindly excuse me, I really do have a hundred different places I'd rather be right now—"

Just as he'd swiveled on his heel to strut away, she said something that immediately had him seeing stars, "My mom's your English teacher, Zack. If you don't do this for me, I'll tell her you said it was okay to use your poetry as examples in class from now on. Don't think she doesn't keep it all on file. And you know she would jump at the chance."

Zack didn't think it was possible to be this stiff before. It felt like all of his joints had just fused together into a single unit. He shook it off easy enough, though, and twisted his head around to smirk at her. "You know if you do that, I'll tell everyone who you are, right? Ms. _Idleberry_… remember? I'm not afraid of you."

* * *

His eyebrow furrowed down dangerously then and he seized her by her ponytail, his lips set in a thin line. "But enough back and forth. Let's get back to business. Promise you won't speak a word or everyone within ten miles of this school will know who you are before the day is up."

Pam stared at him. "Let go of my hair."

At her words, he tugged at her ponytail a little with a grim smirk. "Not until you say you'll keep my little hidden talent hidden."

Pam growled, grabbing his hand in a fierce grip to try to make him relinquish her. Her face was a little uncomfortable. "I don't see the big deal. Why do you even want it to stay a secret anyway?" Tugging at his hand being the basic equivalent of pulling at her own hair, she made an odd sound and threw axes at him with her eyes. "Let go of my hair already! My lips have been thoroughly zipped! Okay? Happy?"

This satisfied Zack a bit more than usual and he let go of her hair with a slight flourish of his hand, his face going so beamingly smug she was almost blinded. "Very. Just be sure to stay true to your word, or I won't hesitate to go back on mine, and then some." Dusting his hands off, he grabbed his backpack up off the floor and slung it over his shoulder, the picture of calm composure. "Now if you're done with your fawning, I have places to be—"

"Oh no you do not! You can't leave yet!" Pam suddenly yelled, one hand running through her terrorized hair and an enraged gleam in her eyes. Her hand fell away to instead grab him by the collar of his plaid shirt and yank him forward, just enough to sneer into his face and catch him off guard. "I'm not done with you! You think I've just been following you around because I wanted to compliment you?"

Zack stared at her, wide-eyed. The short answer to her question would be yes. That's all anyone had ever wanted to do in the past. "What else would you want? My soul?"

Pam's eyes danced away a moment, contemplating possibly going along with that just for the sake of freaking him out (his ego was so big, he could use a little humbling, she thought), before she just huffed out a breath and pushed him away again, crossing her arms. Putting herself any more on his black list wouldn't be a wise idea right now considering what she needed to ask him. "Oh, nothing that grotesque…" she laughed, "It's just that I sort of thought maybe you could write a poem for me…" Her gaze turned hopeful.

Zack did a double take of her, before he guffawed, "Chickie, I have a girlfriend and I don't even write poems about her, what makes you think—"

"Oh, God, not that." She twisted her face in raw disgust. "I said _for_ me, not about me. There's an Annual Poetry competition that's held every year, and I was kind of hoping—"

"Not interested," Zack cut her off dryly.

"Hear me out." Pam held her hands out to him, before one inevitably wound it's way around his wrist to keep him from leaving, as he seemed intent to do. She grinned at him, trying to be charming. "If you could write an award winning poem for me, which I know you could, the prize would be as good as mine—"

"You say that as if I wouldn't know," Zack interrupted her flatly once more. Damn, this girl was obvious.

Pam struggled with not growling at him for interrupting her again, but she took a deep breath and calmed down enough to continue normally, "Whatever. The point is, I need that prize! This year in the paper they announced they were offering something totally different from the usual year supply of cheese they offer." She rolled her eyes. "Normally I wouldn't ask someone to do this for me, but I'm not that good at poetry—I need a professional, someone I know for sure can win."

Zack groaned out a sigh, rubbing his palm over his eyes in disbelief. "Okay, curiosity killed the Zack, but I've gotta know. What's the prize?"

"A scholarship…" She pursed her lips, grabbing her ponytail around to run her fingers through it comfortingly. "One of the main reasons we moved to No Man's Land is because it's close to a college my brother really wants to go to, but it's really expensive…"

"And you wanted me to win so your brother could get a free ticket to Nerdville—" Zack's eyes had progressively widened as he realized before they fell flat, "Oh, okay, I'm starting to see the point here."

Pam stared at him, holding her breath. "So? Will you do it?"

Zack couldn't hold back the scoff that burst from his mouth, and he put his hands on his hips as he looked down at her skeptically. "What's in it for me? Because, not to steal your role as Captain Obvious here, but you haven't exactly fallen in my good graces. Why would I ever do this for you? Why would I even _consider_ doing this for you?"

"Because…" She struggled with a reason, irritated. He was right, she had done a poor job in charming him into her favor, but he'd started it with the whole 'red hair' thing and it had made her passive aggressive. And that ego thing and the easy popularity and spying on her through his window—he was like her worst nightmare, a perverted snob who always thought he knew best, with an attitude problem to boot. She couldn't stand him, how anyone tolerated his presence was beyond her, and asking him for help for her brother was one of the most demeaning things she'd ever had to do to herself—and he wasn't even going to allow her this, for sake of his own stupid reputation.

When she found herself at a loss for anything to persuade him, she did the only thing she could think to do—she grabbed him by the lapels of his plaid shirt and forced him up against the wall of lockers to their right, rattling them with the weight of his body. His jaw dropped at her fiery expression, and she chose that moment to yell, her lollypop stuffed away in her cheek, "Because I need you to, and you are _going to_ do this! Don't be heartless! It can be completely anonymous even! I don't care, just—you have to do this!" Nearly ripping his shirt from him, she pulled him forward to growl, desperate, "Do it or else!"

A cackle suddenly burst out from Zack's lips, finding this humorous apparently as he grabbed her startled wrists, his smirk dark. "Or else… what, Ms. Idleberry?" He smiled sweetly.

* * *

"Well thank you very much for telling me that. I just know now that in my darkest moments in the middle of the night, I'll be able to turn over in bed and say, 'Well, at least I know for sure the guy I don't give two shakes of a tail about won't be obsessively stalking me.'"

* * *

_**Reason cut: **I can't even remember by this point, lol. Did I even really cut this?_

* * *

All he could think, was that it was a very good thing she'd agreed to be on his side. But getting along with her and keeping things peaceful between himself and her was going to be a challenge. It's easy to get under his skin, _indeed_. It was the hair. Of course it was the hair. It wasn't just that it was red, though—it was _the_ red. That shade of pure, fiery red, dark and ominous. The color of dried blood and death and pain. Of the sky when the end is on the horizon. Kassidy's was a bright, friendly orange, and he'd known her forever, even before _it_. It wasn't like _his_. Or Pam's.

* * *

_**Reason cut: **Couldn't find a place, I s'pose. Also in the way of a pretty big concept I have in my head of certain things that shall not be named. In reality, Zack does see big similarities between his mother and himself. Minus the temper.  
_

* * *

He patted her arms comfortingly, a bit embarrassed at this random mother-son chat she'd forced on him, but more so than that he was ashamed by the fact he'd inadvertently hurt her somehow. He was aware his parents thought him very similar to his mother, his dad had never been shy to point out the similarities, but he'd never seen it. He had never been violent, or prone to furious outbursts, or… _legitimately_ insane. Those were all Phil's thing, not his.

* * *

**_Note: _**_These are just old notes that I didn't have the heart to delete, lol. I guess they're interesting? Psh. The last two actually are kinda deleted scenes, or at least concepts of scenes, anyway. So they fit.  
_

* * *

(Flashback to Zack coming over for a visit to the Johanssen household, about a year after the whole bully event. Brief Ham/Kori friendship, with the, "Please don't call me Ham!" thing. Taro talks to him, mentions "that kid" Zack wanted him to keep an eye on, and tells him he moved, nonchalantly. Zack immediately freezes up, and makes an excuse about needing to use the bathroom. He goes in there and is freaking out, trying to catch his breath, when he realizes he's not alone. Jaron is sitting scrunched in a ball in the bathtub, but looking at him as if he's the crazy one. Zack's always known Jaron existed, but hadn't ever seen him around much, for all the times he's visited. Jaron asks him why he's hyperventilating next to a toilet. Zack in turn asks why he's hiding in a bathtub. Jaron doesn't answer him. Zack can't help but be intrigued by his hiding, and notices the book beside him. Jaron surprises him by asking if he's really _the_ Zack Shortman, the kid he's always seeing around town with so many friends. Zack confidently says, yes, he is, and Jaron is immediately silent. There's an awkward silence, and Zack finally begins to take his leave, saying, "Well, it was nice finally meeting you, sorta." He says one more thing before his departure then, as an afterthought that surprises Jaron, "That book has a really sad ending. I don't recommend it if you're trying to find a decent escape." He closes the door then.)

(Phil comes up to troll on Zack, tell him he totes knows about his poem and shizzle. Zack tries really hard to be composed, but he hasn't slept very well so he's tired, he's had an emotionally trying day, and it's hard not to kill all hyoomans. So yeah, he tries to be composed, but he shakes a little and Phil, being Phil, totes notices, and he relishes in his discomposure. Zack tries to be smooth about it, like all, "Phil, don't be stupid-" but Phil's all like, "And by stupid you mean too smart for your own good?" You get it.)

(Arnold/Helga/Ham scene here—Arnold goes to check up on Zack and Phil, finds Zack just letting Phil out, both of them perfectly pleasant. Then Arnold leaves all "Well wtf oh well" and Phil smirks at Zack before leaving, and Zack shuts the door with the entire day falling down on his shoulders and he's just really tired.)

* * *

**A/N: **And there you have it. My slow descent into madness. :P Now I can delete ALL of this, and laugh maniacally as I... eat chocolate and weep oceans. LEAVE ME ALONE ABOUT IT.

It's funny 'cause the final product sucks. XD LOL, I guess it just goes to show, the road to hell was paved with good intentions. And candy wrappers... so many candy wrappers. xD

WELL, 8 o' clock for me now. Gotta be going! I'll be seeing y'all later. Have a good one.

**_~SuprSingr_**


	14. Happy Mothafuckin April, Foo

**A/N: **Thought today would be an appropriate time to post this. Had it on my desktop long enough. I open it sometimes for a laugh or if I'm just thinking too hard and need my brain to stutter to a stop.

I've also decided to be dead for the day. I'm wearing a white sheet over my head and making evil sounds. It's surprisingly liberating. You should all try it.

HAPPY APRIL, FOOLS

_Made with Gizoogle._

**Disclaimer: **I own this fine piece of literary expertise and thoughtful dialogue.

**WARNING:** LOADS OF CURSING AND INAPPROPRIATE WORDS AND THEMES AND... AND OTHER STUFF. I'M NOT KIDDING, IF YOU'RE LIKE TWELVE, LEAVE NOW OR I'LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND FORCE YOU TO EAT YOUR VEGETABLES while I rock you softly to sleep with a relaxing bed time story featuring Winnie the Pooh and his faithful pals, Piglet, Rabbit, Tigger and... I could've sworn there was one other.

**Eeyore:** It's okay. Everyone always forgets me.

You'll also start losing brain cells at some point here. Trust me. But I was already an idiot before I read it, so I figured it didn't matter. If you're not an idiot... run. Run while you still can.

* * *

**Happy Mothafuckin April, Foo'**

* * *

**Life wit tha Shortmans**

Author: SuprSingr PM

Read bout Arnold n' Helgaz gang together n' they thuglife as homeboy n' ho... n' they four kids. Insanitizzle, amusement, n' romizzle awaitz yo ass fo'sho. Rated T fo' phat reason, proceed wit caution. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Now wit 90% mo' grandmuthafathas, muthafucka! Stella n' Milez included!

* * *

Mom n' Dad had been gone all day; Mom off hustlin errands, n' Dad still at work. Da only gangstas home was her bruthas. Zack, havin been ditched by his sickest fuckin ho fo' a date, was loungin on tha couch up in tha livin room, sulking, while Phil was beside his ass watchin whatever fancied him, straight-up ignorin Zack as he rattled on bout how tha fuck he didn't give a fuck what tha fuck he could have done ta set her off fo' realz. And whilst all dat went on up in tha livin room, Josh was off liftin weightz up in his bangin room, IMin his wild lil' playaz durin breaks n' straight-up rarely comin down fo' gin n juice fo' realz. Amanda worried bout his ass sometimes...

Just when her ass thought it was time ta quit n' give up (just fo' a few mo' minutez of deep breaths, mind you), her ass thought her ass felt tha lid give a lil. Feelin a spark of hope, her ass twisted harder, n' harder, n' harder, until...

A sudden deliberately rushed shout came from behind her, muthafuckin right up in her ear, "Amanda!"

Guess what, muthafucka! Biatch screamed, jumpin almost a foot up in tha air, n' up in effect, tha lid popped off, n' along wit it, tha freshly opened jelly jar jettisoned tha fuck into tha air.

Philz look of jollyment vanished when he saw tha glass n' straight-up breakable jar go flying, n' he jumped forward quick, n' his thugged-out arm flew up ta catch tha jar...

...but he wasn't quick enough, n' tha jar fell straight ta tha floor, a hideous smash soundin from tha now broken pile of glass n' grape jelly on they Mom n' Dadz clean floor.

They both stared at it wit wide, shocked eyes n' agape grills, Philz hand still stretched up up in his vain attempt ta quit what tha fuck was now a realitizzle.

Fortunately, though, Amanda just looked pale n' sad. Still, it struck his ass all up in wit guilt, n' he stood straight again, anxiously hustlin a hand all up in his fuckin lil' dark, brown afro he'd inherited from his stupid-ass pimped out-grandfather yo. Dude didn't give a fuck what tha fuck ta say, though fo' realz. Apologies just weren't his cold-ass thang. But unfortunately, though he had acquired his thugged-out lil' pride n' witz from his crazy-ass mutha (not ta mention his complete lackin of tha mobilitizzle ta say he was sorry up in a none-insultin way), he had gotten his conscience from his wild lil' father. Though he'd spent muthafuckin years tryin ta stomp down on that, it never failed ta come back full force when he did some shiznit shameful, just as he had now yo. Dude felt wack fo' her sadness, his own sista yo, but knowin dat if he did drop a rhyme it would only do ta make her mo' fucked up (since he knew some shiznit conceited and jokey would be all he could come up wit ta say), he kept his crazy-ass grill shut unsurely.

Finally, though, Amanda took a deep breath all up in her grill, sniffled a lil all up in her stuffy nose, n' then brought her now blank eyes up ta hook up his wild lil' fearful ones. "Could yo ass please make mah crazy ass some soup?"

Phil just blinked a moment, havin not expected this... but then he just nodded, glad her ass wasn't brangin up tha rather humiliatin incident.

Amanda nodded back. "Nuff props. I be goin back ta bed." Biatch dragged her muthafuckin ass up of tha room then.

* * *

A giggle.

That was all it took fo' tha ghetto ta end.

* * *

Phil frowned, his brows furrowing. "Well, thatz insulting. Why not?"

"You're just too lil', n' itz boy/girl stuff. Yo Ass just wouldn't git dat shit." Zack resumed clickin channels, feelin all tha mo' exhausted.

Almost instantly, as if some muthafucka had hit a switch, Philz eyes went tha fuck into slits, his fuckin lips pursed, n' his wild lil' grill transformed tha fuck into a rock; hard n' cold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Ohhh, I see… You're muthafuckin right. I _wouldn't_ git it fo' realz. And I have no _desire_ ta 'get dat shit know what I be sayin biatch, biatch? " Dude used air quotes. "Booty… Useless, evil creatures."

"Yo Ass wouldn't be here if it weren't fo' a biatch," Zack stated uninterestedly, not even lookin at his muthafuckin ass.

"Yeah, n' neither would Amanda, muthafucka! Proof!" Phil profronted suddenly up in a dramatic tone of voice, his wild lil' former low, dry tone lost. "That darn Sophie keeps gettin yo ass up in shit. When will yo ass learn?"

Zack just gave a straight-up long, chillaxed sigh n' put a hand ta his wild lil' face. "Phil, please, I be not up in tha vibe."

* * *

"Yes it _is_. Itz mind rotting. Yo Ass should be up watchin a porno and some shit, not grounded up in da crib watchin terribly executed fight scenes."

"Therez not a god damn thang phat up muthafuckin right now anyway, I be fine," Zack stated emotionlessly, givin his ass a fleetin glizzle before his wild lil' fuckin eyes was back focused on tha televizzle.

* * *

Zack paused at that, blinkin a couple times. "Then I'd go."

Phil gaped at his thugged-out audacitizzle. "_Why_?"

"Because shez mah ho." Zack shrugged, as if it was dat simple.

Phil exploded off tha couch, wavin his thugged-out arms up in almost random n' violent gesticulations. "_See_, biatch? This is exactly what tha fuck I be rappin' about, muthafucka! Biatch _rulez_ you, muthafucka! Yo Ass worshizzle at her stinkin altar!"

* * *

"Oh?" Phil axed sarcastically, crossin his thugged-out arms. "I see, tha 'I give, her ass takes' system. _Right_."

"No, her ass gives too."

"Oh straight-up, biatch? And what tha fuck do her ass give?"

Zack stared at his ass a long-ass while, his wild lil' fuckin eyes wide. Finally, he looked away, part smug, part amused. "Oh, her ass gives, yo dirty ass is gonna just have ta trust me."

* * *

Pam gained her bearings fast enough n' quickly put her arms up up in tha doorway, blockin his way wit a gangbangin' firm look. "Hey, wait a minute, I gotz a funky-ass bone ta pick wit you—"

"Dogs often do," Zack holla'd, his wild lil' fuckin eyes distractedly tryin ta figure up how tha fuck ta git around her without touchin her muthafuckin ass.

Pam gaped at his thugged-out audacity. "Is you kiddin me, biatch? Is dis all you do, biatch? Take skanky shotz at some muthafucka whose only intention from tha straight-up beginnin was ta rap ta you?" Her eyes blasted up up in a glare, n' her ass growled. "I be gettin straight-up sick of you—"

"Dope!" Zack chirped grinnily, raisin his thugged-out arms up in a shrug. "Because tha feelin is mutual."

"Oh, straight-up, biatch? I had no clue," her ass holla'd dryly.

Finally givin up on gettin away fo' now, Zack huffed. "What is you even still bustin here, biatch? Shouldn't you have gone home by now?"

Pam shrugged. "I like free chicken n' you know I be eatin up dat shizzle all muthafuckin day, biatch." Snortin then, her ass glowered, "But I don't like unibrowed crybabies embarrassin mah crazy ass up in front of hot guys!"

Despite his dirty ass, Zack smirked. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "Oh, come on, you seemed ta git along just fine afta I left."

Pam shook, her grill colorin a funky-ass bright shade of pink. "Dude gave up on mah crazy ass sayin anythang n' busted some lyrics ta mah crazy ass I should probably splash some cold gin n juice on mah face, so I axed his ass where tha bathroom was, n' he busted some lyrics ta mah crazy ass yo, but I gotz trippin n' it just…" Biatch took up in a shallow breath before glarin at his ass clearly tryin not ta laugh. "Shut up, muthafucka! This be all yo' fault!"

Zack snizzleed, before smirkin all up in his strained grill n' standin higher. "Oh, I know straight-up well. I take full responsibility." Dude played wit tha collar of his shirt, feelin rather cocky wit his dirty ass n' lookin it too. "One of mah mo' betta works."

Pam looked up at his ass all up in her eyebrows, her expression straight-up flat n' disbelieving. "How tha fuck is dis even possible," her ass muttered ta her muthafuckin ass, before pokin his ass up in his chest wit a lil' small-ass scowl.

* * *

Gerald patted Helga on tha shoulder then, leanin down ta smirk at her muthafuckin ass. "Bein talla than yo big-ass booty is ghon never git old."

Helga scoffed, slappin his hand away from her muthafuckin ass. "Bein able ta beat tha shizzle outta a playa twice mah size will never git old." Biatch blasted his ass a look dat could bust a cap up in a army.

Gerald backed away slowly, never one ta git on Helgaz bad side. "_Okay_. Great way ta end tha evening."

* * *

There was a pause on tha other side of tha door then, tha bangin ceasing, n' it was enough ta make even Zack pause a moment ta peep what tha fuck Phil was brewin fo' realz. Afta a few mo' seconds, a dramatic voice suddenly cried from tha other side of tha door, "Zack, yo ass is muthafuckin right, muthafucka! What be I thankin, biatch? Callin mah big, much stronger n' infinitely mo' attractizzle brutha _scrawny _and a_ moron_, biatch? Why, tha disses barely hold gin n juice up in any case, muthafucka! Yo Ass was smart-ass enough ta trap mah crazy ass up in here up in tha straight-up original gangsta place, _afta all_. I should straight-up quit resisting. I be no match fo' tha pimped out _Zachary Shortman_. Rebellion is pointless, muthafucka! Oh, woe is me, muthafucka! To be so weak n' dim!"

Zack could just barely keep up in his fuckin laughta at dis display, n' sighed, thoroughly entertained, before statin simply, "Don't quit yo' dizzle thang, kid."

* * *

"Oh, git _over_ yo ass, Unibrow."

"Da ladies _ludd_ tha brow, lil brutha. Yo Ass should straight-up work on dat jealousy problem yo ass have there."

"Zack, ever heard of a lil muthafuckin thang called '_humilitizzle_', biatch? Dad goes on bout it all tha time, biatch? Rin any bells?"

Zack just laughed. "Oh, come on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Therez no need fo' modesty when yo ass look _this_ phat. That stuffz mo' fo' tha masses."

* * *

Da door opened then almost startlingly quick n' Phil fell out, n' his wild lil' grill came up in instant contact wit tha floor.

Dude didn't dare git up, though, as he could already feel dat loomin presence over his dirty ass, tha tension so thick up in tha room dat he was practically chokin on it, regardlesz of tha fact his nozzle was smashed up against tha hardwood floor.

Da presence tapped itz foot, causin lil' small-ass tremors ta run all up in tha floor n' vibrate against his wild lil' grill yo. Dude shivered.

"_Up_. Now."

Phil obeyed immediately, near-scramblin off tha floor n' standin at attention, eyes cemented ta tha floor.

There was a growl, n' Phil steeled his dirty ass, clenchin his wild lil' fuckin eyes n' fistz shut.

"Phillip Bob Craig Shortman, _look mah crazy ass up in tha eye when I be rappin' ta you_."

It took effort yo, but he managed ta wretch his wild lil' fuckin eyes open n' brang em ta connec' wit hers yo. Her blue eyes was narrowed dangerously, flames blazing, n' her arms stiff at her sides, legs spread. Dude swallowed unconsciously. _Her war stizzle_ yo. Dude dared ta ask, "Uh… Hey, Mom. Everythang all muthafuckin right?"

* * *

"_Well_?" her ass prompted, holdin tha underpantz over his wild lil' grill n' bobbin them. "Any last lyrics, Zacky Boy, biatch? Perhaps some beggin fo' yo' thuglife ta be spared fo' all mah phat bras now bein ant bait?"

That managed ta git a response up of his shocked form, n' he sputtered out, grill contorting, "Ewww, mom bras—did yo ass _straight-up_ have ta put dat image up in mah head—"

"Ohhh, I be sorry, it would seem you've run up of time, n' dat was _not_ tha correc' answer. I'd rap ta play again soon yo, but yo ass don't even have dat much time." Biatch grabbed his ass by tha collar of his blue-plaid shirt n' proceeded ta drag his ass across tha yard, hell bent on throwin his ass up in tha lake.

Zack was havin none of that, though, n' he clawed all up in tha ground, freakin out, "Whoa, whoa, muthafucka! I be sorry, I be sorry, muthafucka! Mom, stop, muthafucka! Seriously, it was a accident, muthafucka! I didn't—"

"_Why_," her ass ground up all up in clenched teeth, tryin wit all her might ta pull his ass despite his bangin resistizzle, "were yo ass even," her ass pulled his ass a few mo' inches, "in our bedroom," her ass grabbed his ass under his thugged-out arms n' continued ta pull, bustin significant progress now, "_in tha straight-up original gangsta place_?"

Zack done cooked up a odd sort of screechin sound n' attempted ta stand up, only fo' his fuckin lanky legs ta stumble n' make his ass fall harshly on his butt n' git dragged up in even longer, mo' determined strides by his fuckin lil' deadly mutha. "I-I was just up in there, I don't give a fuck!"

* * *

Dude choked out, fallin onto his back on tha lawn, "What is tha _odds_?"

Helga shrugged, irritation darkenin her grill wit how tha fuck he was straight-up missin tha point. "Dude broke a mirror. Look, _Zachary_," her ass was pleased wit how tha fuck dat brought a grimace ta his wild lil' face, "I be done wit yo' complete disregard fo' rules. Da footbizzle head may not be able ta strike fear tha fuck into yo' heart yo, but I," her ass struck quick n' grabbed his ass by tha collar of his thugged-out lil' plaid shirt n' pulled his ass nozzle ta nozzle wit her, causin his wild lil' fuckin eyes ta instantly bolt open wide up in tha grill of her ire, "will not hesitate ta take a blow torch ta _all of yo' books_."

His eyes instantly went startlingly dark, just what tha fuck Helga expected, n' he growled, "_Yo Ass wouldn't_…"

* * *

"Yo Ass always miss tha dopest stuff, Ham. I be sorry fo' you," Phil commented, eyein tha elder.

Ham pursed his fuckin lips. "Whatever fo' realz. All tha mo' betta fo' mah sanitizzle."

Zack looked around at em all wit eye-twitchin mortification, before he stunted suddenly, grill blank fo' realz. Afta a moment and two of uncertain atmosphere, he burst tha fuck into raucous, ear-splittin laughta n' fell back once more, rockin back n' forth up in hysterics.

They all observed dis silently fo' a minute, before Ham holla'd bluntly, "Hez lost his crazy-ass mind."

"It was only a matta of time," Phil muttered listlessly.

"In dis family, I believe dat shit." Ham took a bite up of his crazy-ass muthafuckin ice cream.

* * *

"I can't even…" Ham breathed. Afta a few seconds, he threw his thugged-out arms up, bustin his crazy-ass muthafuckin ice cream flyin away, n' announced, "I be done!"

* * *

Guess what, muthafucka! Suddenly tha wind was knocked up of his ass when Zack came racin up tha backdoor again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Face up in tha dirt, he looked up ta peep Zack jump back up quick n' go high-tailin across tha yard as fast as his wild lil' freakishly long legs could take his muthafuckin ass. Phil didn't git a chizzle ta wonder why, only just managin ta push his dirty ass up off tha ground when Arnold came shreddin across tha yard afta him, his afro mangled n' big-ass red dotz all over his wild lil' forearms. Phil stared up in shock as nuff muthafuckin yardz out, Arnold caught up wit Zack n' fuckin started draggin his ass back ta tha house, yellin obscenitizzles dat he couldn't hear.

"Let dis be a lesson ta you," Ham holla'd wit a smile, "_Karma_ always has tha last laugh."

Phil grumbled under his breath, "Note ta self: bust a cap up in dis Karma person. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch has no sense of humor."

* * *

"Is yo ass shizzle therez more?" tha fiend dared ask his crazy-ass muthafuckin innocent lil sister.

"Definitely, muthafucka! Mom stocked up yesterdizzle fo' Thanksgivin but bought like eight bags too nuff of cookie n' cake supplies. Dad gave her a whole lecture bout it, holla'd shez feedin a boardin house, not a barn," Amanda giggled again, loud n' unconstrained, tha sound of youth n' sunshine. "Biatch hid it straight-up well, though."

"Biatch knew you'd go lookin fo' it," Pam laughed.

"Well, doi," Faith rolled her eyes prettily, grinnin as her ass continued ta joyously strip tha room of any semblizzle of a kitchen n' juiced it up look mo' like tha sorry remainz of Hurricane Sandy yo. Hurricane Amanda, was mo' like dat shit.

"I hope I be not gettin yo ass up in any shit," Pam tittered, tha grin on her grill bebustin lyrics anythang but guilt. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch raided tha breadbox next, frownin as her ass came across not a god damn thang but crumbs n' tha straight-up original gangsta n' last slicez of a oldschool bread loaf.

"Oh, no, I do dis every last muthafuckin year. Mom never getz mad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!"

* * *

Amanda done cooked up a joke of twirlin a piece of sunshine afro around her finger as her ass holla'd, "Well, I be straight-up phat at findin thangs."

"I should have figured you'd be Hufflepuff. Yo Ass _look_ like a Hufflepuff." Pam stuck her tongue up in her cheek, teeth visible up in a grin.

"Oh, biatch? Then what tha fuck is you?"

"Ravenclaw, of course." Biatch flipped a loose strand of afro over her shoulder, returnin Amandaz grin.

* * *

"And lo n' behold, I was at least half muthafuckin right. 'manda, what, biatch? Don't yo ass know mo' betta than ta invite strangers tha fuck into our home?"

Amanda observed his ass unsurely, a delicate frown curvin her grill. "I was feedin tha fish up back wit Daddy n' Pam came out. Dad holla'd he knew her n' it was aiiight if her ass came in."

"No, now, see," he strutted across tha room, before he came ta tha end of tha island n' picked up a shredded bag of oldschool chocolate cookin mintz between two fingers, lookin like tha Tazzleanian devil on crack had had itz way wit it, "I have shizzle believin Dad gave permission fo' our next door neighbor ta trash tha kitchen." Dude raised half his wild lil' fuckin eyebrow, smirking. "Especially not one dat looks like a deranged midget clown goin fo' tha peace prize by bribin lil hoes wit dem scooby snacks n' misleadin t-shirts."

"Our thugged-out asses bout ta clean it up, assjack, so roll back tha sass," Pam blasted back, irritated, her movementz becomin jerky as her ass continued ta stir fo' realz. And wit tha mussed, scraggly afro n' unnaturally wide eyes, her ass looked tha straight-up textbook definizzle of his fuckin lil' description.

Zack eyed her violent movementz a few momentz silently, before he stated, "Yo Ass know if yo ass break dat bowl, mah mom will bust a cap up in you, muthafuckin right?"

* * *

"Oh-ho!" Zack guffawed, steppin ta tha muthafuckin right of Amanda ta place a hand on her shoulder wit a big-ass grin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. "Da he-lady spendz a hour and two wit tha lil lady n' suddenly believes her ass knows her mo' betta than her big-ass brutha, biatch? Da playa whoz spent all seven muthafuckin yearz of her thuglife by her side, biatch? Who fed her, chizzled her, n' lulled her ta chill wit jointz of dirtnap by tree-cradle, biatch? I carried her for_ nine months, _Pam!"

* * *

"Eh, I be gettin mo' tomorrow anyway." Dude strutted further tha fuck into tha room then, inspectin it wit a critical eye. "Geez, dem hoes strike again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Mom'll gotz a field dizzle wit all this."

"Our thugged-out asses bout ta clean it up!" Pam burst up at random, her handz shootin ta her sides as her ass glared all up in tha boy. Phil merely regarded her calmly, eyebrow still raised. Pam faltered tha next second, guiltily hangin her head. Biatch mumbled a apologizzle.

* * *

"Substitute mackdaddy todizzle." Dude smirked darkly. "And tomorrow fo' realz. And tha dizzle afta dat shit. Life is phat. For once." Dude folded his thugged-out arms. "Have I ever mentioned therez a endless supply of tacks up in tha mackdaddyz lounge?"

* * *

Arnold stared anxiously down at his bangin resume, nibblin on tha eraser end of his thugged-out lil' pencil as tha pimpin' muthafucka thought yo. Humming, his schmoooove ass checked off a cold-ass lil couple boxes n' added a gangbangin' few mo' credentials n' playas whoz ass could recommend him, just ta be safe yo. He'd hit dat shizzle a long-ass time ta git dis thang, n' now dat da thug was just a scant two weeks away from finally landin tha posizzle da thug wanted, da thug wasn't goin ta cut any corners.

* * *

Da doggy den would only remain up in his care until his thugged-out lil' muthafathas gots back from they traveling, however. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I be runnin hoes up in 2013. Da doggy den was tha rightful inheritizzle of Milez Shortman, not his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. Arnold was just fine wit this, as tha doggy den was already straight-up full, only had two bathrooms (one of which was hidden up in a straight-up dark, drafty, n' frankly dirty part of tha house—there had, at one time, been one other private bathroom, up in Mista Muthafuckin Smizzlez room yo, but afta he moved up tha pimpin' muthafucka took tha toilet wit him, n' they had yet been able ta afford a freshly smoked up one), n' was rather worn down. Dude had not tha scrilla, nor tha time, ta dedicate ta tha repairs dat would be required ta make it a suitable enough livin fo' what tha fuck da thug wanted fo' tha freshly smoked up thugz of tha family, namely his hoe n' son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Fuck dat shit, dis was not ideal yo, but they would make it work fo' as long as they must yo. Dude hoped straight-up much dis would not be they only child, n' had hinted as much yo, but Helga had yet ta respond wit anythang but amusement n' eye rolling.

In tha meantime, he juiced it up his crazy-ass mission ta git a thugged-out decent thang so his schmoooove ass could start contributin ta they doggy den fund. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! At tha influence of Helgaz midnight whisperings up in his wild lil' fuckin ear, he'd come ta trip straight-up largely of bustin a sick home wit her, of 2.5 kids, a white picket fence, n' tha whole nine yards. With every last muthafuckin dizzle—n' every last muthafuckin time they was interrupted from any sort of intimacy by one of mah thugs bargin in, screaming, or complainin—his want fo' it grew, n' his thugged-out lil' punk-ass fuckin started ta understand, at least ta a lil' small-ass extent, his wild lil' freakadelic grandpaz exasperation n' consequent need fo' departure.

* * *

Perhaps it was not _ideal_, n' not what tha fuck Phil or his thugged-out lil' muthafathas had wanted fo' his ass yo, but it was all he'd had fo' a straight-up long time yo. Dude didn't regret gangbangin them, n' da thug was thankful fo' Helga bein there ta back his ass up on it, as dat freaky freaky biatch had apparently always longed ta booty-call dem gang as well. Now dat dat freaky freaky biatch had them, a pain up in tha butt or no, dat biiiiatch was adamantly against losin em.

"They're straight-up crazy, dysfunctionizzle n' too pig-headed fo' they own good," she'd explained ta his ass one night, wit a rueful look up in her eye. "I fit right in."

* * *

"Helga…" da ruffneck dragged lowly, givin her a look yo. Dude knew dis game well enough by now ta know dat biiiiatch was just tryin ta avoid tha subject.

"Footbizzle Head…" dat biiiiatch whined back sarcastically.

"Our thugged-out asses have ta rap bout dis sooner or later."

* * *

Phoebe stared at her, bemused. "Helga, is you shizzle yo ass be aiiight, biatch? You've seemed a lil… anxious, since our slick asses left tha Sunset Arms."

"Oh, that." Helga sighed, sweepin tha entire shelf of toastas tha fuck into they cart. "I be just buckwild. This type'a shizzle happens all tha time. This is tha straight-up original gangsta time up in months Ya Mom shoulda told ya, I been able ta slip off tha bizzle n' chain." Biatch theatrically rolled her eyes. "Arnoldz been so overbearin lately, I swear. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I feel like a teenager again, slippin around behind his back like this, n' just ta loot _groceries_, of all things." Biatch turned her eyes uncomfortably away, eyin a cold-ass lil couple boxez of cereal some lazy shopper left there at some point. "I had ta practically shove his ass up tha door n' deadbolt it shut ta git tha message across dat I would be _o-kay_ while he be straight at his thang rap battle. I be shizzle da thug was five minutes away from tryin ta postpone it, which is ludicrous."

A long-sufferin bust a funky-ass big-ass fart tumbled outta her grill as dat dunkadelic hoe took a cold-ass lil couple steps around tha cart so Phoebe could peep her full-view. Extendin her arms up at her sides, she looked at her skeptically. "Phoebe, I don't straight-up look _that_ pathetic, do I, biatch? Tell me tha truth."

* * *

Phoebe finally managed ta cook up a sound yo, but it was but a squeak. Then at last, da hoe blurted out, "Helga, yo' gin n juice broke!"

* * *

"Well, yo' resume is straight-up impressive, sir. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I can't seem ta read yo' last name here, however…"

"It aint nuthin but Shortman," Arnold supplied, smilin at his ass kindly. "Arnold Shortman."

Principal Bartlett smiled widely at his muthafuckin ass. "Well, Mista Muthafuckin Shortman, I can't go solely off of paperwork. Tell me bout yo ass. Why do you wanna be a mackdaddy here at oldschool P.S. 118?"

* * *

"Mista Muthafuckin Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass Shortman, is you aiiight, biatch? Do I need ta booty-call you a thugged-out doctor?"

Arnoldz eyes popped open at dat n' da perved-out muthafucka sprung up, his jaw droppin yo. His eyes watered n' his schmoooove ass coughed a lil, feelin sick ta his stomach, n' yet he looked up at what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka hoped ta be his wild lil' future boss wit da most thugged-out jubilant, ecstatic expression tha playa had eva seen. "I be goin ta gots a funky-ass baby."

Dude looked down at his ass wit his wild lil' fuckin eyebrows knit n' grill up in a straight line, blinking. "Is you tryin ta tell me yo ass is goin ta give birth, sir?"

Arnold didn't step tha fuck up ta have heard what tha fuck he'd holla'd, or ta even peep him, straight-up yo. Dude just pushed his dirty ass up off of tha floor n' grabbed his ass by tha hand wit his wild lil' fuckin eyes glassy wit tears, n' a grin dat spread full across his wide footbizzle shaped head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I be soopa-doopa sorry, Mista Muthafuckin Bartlett yo, but we're goin ta have ta pick dis up later. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. I be goin ta be a thugged-out dad!"

* * *

"Only tha beginning?" Helga screeched up in horrified indignation, causin tha doctor n' all tha nurses ta wince.

Arnold leaned closer n' shushed her, leanin his wild lil' forehead against tha side of her head. "Shhh, shh, I didn't mean it like dat n' like dis n' like dat y'all. I mean we is goin ta gots a funky-ass dope family, n' a white fence n' grass n' birdz n' anythang else you want. We're goin ta be a gangbangin' family, you, me, n' our son. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass just have ta keep pushing. Push fo' our future, Helga. You've never been one ta give under pressure, yo ass is too phat fo' that, n' thatz why I gots a straight-up boner fo' yo thugged-out ass. Thatz what tha fuck you need ta do, Helga. Be tha biatch I love. Push."

Tears streamed down Helgaz cheeks as her big-ass booty stared at his ass wit a strained, wide-eyed expression.

* * *

_**Nine muthafuckin years later**_

"And just where do you be thinkin yo ass is going, lil' man?"

* * *

Her homeboy busted tha side of her head n' warmly muttered, tha lyrics fallin like bangin' molasses over her ears, as dat schmoooove muthafucka had apparently been witnizz ta tha exchange, "Hez just like you, you know, nahmeean, biatch? Just like his crazy-ass mother." Dude breathed up in her hair.

Helga just stared all up in tha door. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. "Yeah… Just like his crazy-ass mother."

* * *

**A/N:** Wanna gangsta-ize other websites, or maybe read over the rest of the story in gangsta format?

Go to Gizoogle . net

You'll be glad you did, mothafucka


	15. The Not Important Kind of Love

**A/N: **I'm sorry. I just _really_ had to post something, or I swore I was gonna lose my mind.

**Disclaimer: **Look, Simba. Everything the light touches—_**is mine**_. Not yours. Mine. ALL MINE. STEAL ANY OF IT AND BE FREAKING EATEN, OKAY? OKAY, WE COOL? YOU FEEL ME? 'Kay, good. Now go off and play with your queer little lion friends and stay away from my stuff.

* * *

**Shortman Shorts  
**

**The Not Important Kind of Love**

* * *

"And that's where babies come from," Zack finished, groggily.

Phil stared at him blankly a moment, then blinked. He made no sounds, no facial expressions—not even the slightest hint of a reaction. He didn't even twitch.

Zack glanced over at him tiredly from his end of the couch, slumped back with a blanket in his lap and an ice cold Yahoo clutched in his hand. He looked the mirror image of Grandpa Phil like that, all lazy limbs and brittle bones, only younger. Much younger. And with more hair. Snuffling, he asked, "Aren't ya gonna say something? I was expecting an explosion."

Phil snapped out of his stupor enough to reply, still looking nonplussed, "Oh, I'm sorry, my ears automatically shut off directly after you said the word 'girl'—"

The phone ringing interrupted their conversation.

Zack snorted and slid deeper into the cushions. "I ain't getting that."

"But you're the babysitter," Phil reminded him, emphasizing the final word with a condescending, nasally slur. "What if it's an axe murderer thirsty for blood? Or one of those evil clowns from the movies? Or what if it's—" He gasped. "_Zack, what if it's a telemarketer? _You know how stressed I get when people try to sell me stuff."

Zack didn't even blink. "What's an axe murderer or evil clown gonna do to you over the phone?" He snorted suddenly, and looked over at him with a mile-long grin and twinkling blue eyes. "Oh, man, I know—they'd persuade you to give up these foolish Hollywood fantasies and join the dark side, where you _obviously_ belong. They'd be able to tell somehow that you're evil, like just sense it, and they'd be all," he made his voice deep and raspy, "'Pheel, join the dark side, we have pointy things and big red noses. We purchased them from our evil neighbor, Fred, the telemarketer—"

"Oh, shut up," Phil cried, rolling his eyes. By this point, the phone had stopped ringing, but neither one cared. "First of all, I am _not_ evil, and second of all—"

"I beg to differ," Zack sang out, dragging each word out in a falsetto, only to end up yawning and dropping his head onto the back of the couch. "Man, I'm tired."

The phone started up again.

Phil glanced at the door to the hallway, eyes slightly narrowed. "Whoever they are, they're persistent."

"Yeah," Zack replied quietly. A beat. "So go answer it, slave, or I'll tell Mom and Dad about the time—"

"Okay, okay, criminy!" Phil jumped down from the couch, throwing his hands up. "If you're lazy enough to actually _blackmail_ me about it. Sheesh." He stalked out of the room.

Zack smirked at his back, knocking back a swig of his Yahoo to celebrate another easy victory.

Phil slammed the invisible door to the doorway just to let off steam, then snatched the phone up with a speedy growl, "Name, parents, address, purpose of calling, phone number, in that order, five seconds, go."

Heavy breathing was the only response he got. Instantly his eyelids fell and his shoulders dropped in an unimpressed slump. He counted off three seconds, and then got the predictable response, "Uh…"

He didn't bother to roll his eyes. It was just too typical. "Dolores." He meant to have it come out as a question, but his mouth already knew apparently.

More heavy breathing. Then, "Hi."

He placed a weary hand to his forehead. "Is there any particular reason you decided to call me in the middle of the day or are you just being creepy again?"

There was a pause. Even the heavy breathing ceased a moment. Exactly five seconds later, this happened. "I miss… you…" came the response, interlaced with spurts of random wheezing and the occasional splatter of spit on the receiver. "My love."

Phil blinked, then deadpanned, "Goodbye, Dolores."

He hung up.

Settling back into his seat in the living room, Zack looked over and tiredly inquired, "Who was it?"

Phil snatched some of the blanket off of Zack's lap and flattened it out across his own, suddenly feeling a little tired himself. He answered with irked sincerity, "No one of importance."

* * *

**A/N: **Dolores is Brainy's daughter.

Hehehe. Yeah.

...

Oh, c'mon, one of the kids had to have a Brainy-esque stalker. It's like a rule. xD Have you seen how creepy lookin' Brainy's parents are? I'm willing to wager both or at least one of them was a huge stalker, too. I think it's like a fatal flaw in the gene pool or something, lol. So Helga was stalked, Phil's being stalked, and Phil's son/daughter will prolly be stalked too. That's just how this works. Family tradish, y'know?

I actually came up with this concept months ago. I almost had Ham be the stalkee, but then I realized Brainy fell for Helga 'cause she was all poetic and passionate and shiz, so out of all the kids, Phil's def the one Brainy's daughter would fall for. He's got all the passion in the family. It's actually kind of a given. Besides, Ham has enough fangirls. :P

In this version, though, Dolly (Dolores) is actually Phil's only friend.

Phil's only friend is his stalker.

This is just sad.

The idea of anyone being in love with Phil is sad. And hilarious. Oh, man, so freaking hilarious.

I can just picture her like trying to sneak in his bedroom window to rape him in his sleep, and he just wakes up screaming like a banshee before kicking her back out his window. On the second story.

Okay, you know what, I'm just gonna go now before I spurt out anymore of my painfully pathetic ideas for Phil's social life. Sorry for rambling, I haven't slept so. Yeah.

Bye and stuff.

**_REVIEW!_**


	16. A Little Boy and His Cat

**A/N: **THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN INSPIRATION STRIKES AT A REALLY, ASTOUNDINGLY BAD TIME BUT I had to write it, so here it is, enjoy. *Snort*

**Disclaimer:** Dis my sh*t, know what it is. DO YA SON? D'YA REALLY?

* * *

**Shortman Shorts**

**A Little Boy and His Cat**

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a little boy in a big house. In this house resided his family, who were all basically just a bunch of old people. There was Mr. and Mrs. Potts, who liked bricks and lipstick, respectively. There was Mr. Hyunh and his weird sweaters, who liked to call things creepy even though with his strange accent and wide grin, he was by far the creepiest thing in the neighborhood. And then there was Mr. and Mrs. Kokoschka. The missus was nice, but the mister got yelled at a lot by Grandpa, so the little boy always remembered to avoid him as much as possible.

Grandpa was a spritely old man who walked with a cane some days, and some days not. He smiled a lot and liked to pat his head whenever they crossed paths. Sometimes he would even slip him candy after meals and wink at him. The little boy liked him a lot.

He had other grandpas, of course. In fact, he had three. Sometimes having three people to call Grandpa could be confusing, but it was okay. It was just more people to love, after all, and more people to love kept the loneliness away, so the little boy didn't mind.

One grandpa had crazy white hair and strong shoulders to heft him up on so he could see over people, and his other had even broader shoulders, but he couldn't hold him up on them. He said it hurt his back too much, but he would let him sit on his knee some days and they would watch TV together and laugh and that was okay too.

But even still, sometimes, more often than not, he would find himself alone in the big house. His parents would be gone and his siblings out playing and his grandparents sleeping. Mr. and Mrs. Potts would be out, and Mr. and Mrs. Kokoschka at work, and the boy didn't really like thinking about where Mr. Hyunh went too much.

So he would play with his grandma's cats. She kept them fed and took care of them well, but every once in a while, his mom would get mad at him for getting too close. She would call them "mangy," and mention something about them eating rats. But the little boy knew how silly his mom could be sometimes, and knew Daddy didn't mind, so he decided he'd just play with them when Mommy wasn't around. It couldn't bother her if she didn't see it.

As time passed, one of the cats stood out to him. He had a very fat face, puffed up and flat, with the brownest fur imaginable. His eyes were a very striking gold, and sparkled almost like glitter when the sunlight hit them. When the little boy tried to pet him, though, he always ran away. He made many attempts to touch the brown cat, sometimes even resorting to trickery, but it never worked. Eventually, the little boy grew tired of this, and decided that the next time he saw the cat, he would not even try.

The day he decided this, he made funny faces with the tiger cat, got into a race with the black cat, and had twenty-seven staring competitions with the yellow cat. He won every round.

While he was teasing the gray cat with a piece of string that had come off of his shirt, though, he felt something rub up against his side. Before he could wonder at who it was, the brown cat pounced seemingly out of thin air and snatched the string from his hand.

The little boy gawked at him. The golden-eyed cat gawked back. The string hung limply from his teeth and lightly swung just above the asphalt. Neither knew what to think.

Finally, after a long, tense moment, the cat took a tentative step forward and laid the string back down in front of him. The boy expected him to run away like he had done every time before, but instead he laid slowly down, tilted his head up at him, and moved one paw forward to rest atop the string.

The boy was amazed. Slowly, he reached forward, careful not to touch the end the cat was, and picked the string back up. The cat went wild.

The rest of the day was spent dangling the piece of string in front of his nose, trailing it down over his back, and laughing when it was right on top of his head and he was snapping his head around to look for it.

When the dinner bell rang, the little boy regretfully got up and walked dutifully back to the house.

The cat followed.

The two were inseparable after that. They played tug-of-war together, watched TV together, and went for long walks together with Grandpa and his cane. Sometimes the little boy would shove food he didn't like in his pocket to give to him later, and on rare occasions – nice occasions – the cat would come into his room at night, hop into his bed, and cuddle in beside him. The little boy was never lonely from that point on, and loved the cat with all his heart.

After about a month of this, the cat started acting funny. He became much more affectionate, and would rub himself up against not only the little boy, but also lamps and furniture. He started going out to pee a lot more, and would moan and cry and roll around at odd hours of the day for no reason. The little boy was baffled, but figured it was a cat thing, so resolved to ignore it.

One day the cat came into his room and peed in a very odd way, though, in a way he had never seen a cat pee before, right on his pillow. The little boy was horrified, and in a panicked rage, grabbed him up by the scruff of his neck and threw him out of the room.

He regretted it later on, as the cat became much more skittish afterwards, but knew that he would forgive him eventually. The pillow was exchanged for a fresh one and the sheets changed just in case, and within the week, the cat was accepting his food again. The little boy was relieved, but made sure to close his door at night from then on. Little did he know it didn't matter. The cat never ventured anywhere near his room again.

Weeks passed. The weather changed from cold to warm, and the cat started disappearing. At first it was nothing, barely enough time for the little boy to really notice, but then the times lengthened, and lengthened, until he had all but disappeared. The boy caught him once, digging around in the trashcans, and saw the wildest look in his golden eyes when his head poked up. A fish bone hung from his jaw, dangling, limp, like the string from long ago, before he jumped out of the can and scurried off near another cat at the end of the road. He offered the bone to it, the other cat accepted, and the two walked off together. The little boy was very confused.

Later on, when he was on one of his walks with his grandpa and his cane, which had mysteriously appeared again, he asked him why Earnest had been acting so strange.

And his grandpa answered, "_What?_"

The boy spoke louder.

Again, his grandpa's answer was, a little higher, "_What?!_"

The boy screamed it at him.

And Grandpa said, "Oh! Well, why didn't you just say so, sprout?" He laughed. "Of course your cat's been disappearing! He's in heat."

The little boy asked him why he didn't just come inside where there was air condition.

Apparently that was funny because Grandpa laughed again and responded, "Not _that_ kind of heat. The kind of heat you get when you meet a pretty lady!" With a wink and a flick of his eyebrow, the old man nudged suggestively at the little boy and accomplished little more than gaining a slight blush and a confused look. After a moment of silence, Grandpa sighed and patiently explained, "Old Earnest has found himself a girlfriend."

"Oh," said the little boy. He paused, before asking, "Will he come back?"

And Grandpa said, "_What?_" and the boy screamed again and Grandpa responded, "Oh! Yes…" His reply was slow at first, then picked up speed. "Yes. But don't worry your pretty little head too much about it, I'm sure everything'll work out fine." He ran his bony fingers comfortingly through his hair, straightening it out, and then patted his head with a quiet murmur, "Not everyone is here forever. Try not to let it bother ya, though. Things always get better. You'll understand Earnest someday."

The little boy didn't think that last part sounded too good, but decided at least some of what his grandpa said was right and heeded his advice not to worry. Earnest would come back. Earnest always came back.

Days passed without a sign of him. Then weeks, and months, and before he knew it, a whole year had gone by without seeing neither hide nor hair of him. The boy watched for him every day out the window, but he never came. He started leaving his door open again, but he never came. He left a bowl of his favorite food out on the stoop, but _he never came_.

Many years later, that little boy grew up to be a slightly bigger boy. He didn't go out very much, and he didn't really have any friends, but he was fine that way. He didn't mind loneliness. Some might say he even preferred it, if the intense, unwelcoming stare that seemed forever etched onto his face was anything to go by.

So when a brown-haired cat with bright yellow eyes appeared one day, it's cheeks thin and it's face long, nobody thought anything of it when he scared it out of his way with a vicious stomping of his foot, sneered out a, "Mangy rat-eater," and stormed down the street.

After all, Phil had always hated animals.

* * *

**A/N:** Earnest is a reference to "_YO EARNEST!_", a HEY ARNOLD! parody show that was mentioned in "Eugene Goes Bad."

I like cats. :3

**_REVIEW!_**


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